Alliance of Shadows, Book 3: HUNTER

Confrontations

“What were you doing with that woman?”

Shivering, I looked into the eyes of my Mate and sighed. The room felt heavier somehow, the tension thick enough to disrupt the quiet hum of the evening. The muted crackle of the fireplace did nothing to warm the chill settling between us.

“Maria.” I waited as she fumed a little more, her expression flickering between anger and something else. Hurt, maybe. “You know that you can trust me, right? I would never do anything to hurt you. Call me old-fashioned, but loyalty, trust, and respect build a stronger connection than deception, disregard, and disrespect.”

Her shoulders squared defensively, the movement sharp, reactionary. “What? Are you saying that I don’t trust you? Is that it? Why can’t you just give me a straight answer?”

I schooled my features, forcing a calm I wasn’t sure I truly felt, and offered her a measured smile. “Your lack of trust in me is a little disheartening. Until you give me a reason not to, I will continue to trust and respect you. Regina is Maggie’s Mate. They are merely my friends, and Regina is my Lieutenant.”

Watching her eyes flicker with emotion, I sat behind my desk and pretended to do real work, absentmindedly shifting a stack of papers as if they held more interest than the storm brewing between us. I’d given her exactly what she asked for, but was it enough?

Demanding an answer was one thing. Accepting it was another.

She blinked a few times before turning on her heel and walking away from me, her movements sharp, deliberate. Shaking her head, she lowered herself into one of the chairs by the fireplace, the soft creak of wood barely audible over the faint crackle of flames.

I smiled when she scowled, reaching for my favorite book. Her fingers hesitated over the worn cover before she slid it into her lap, tracing the embossed title with absent curiosity.

“You read Robert Heinlein?” Skepticism etched into every word.

“I do. He was a remarkable man,” I said, laughing when she turned surprised eyes to me. “I met him once before he passed away. You forgot that I'm a lot older than I appear, didn't you?”

She said nothing, casually thumbing through the pages until her gaze snagged on the signature scrawled inside. Her fingers lingered over the ink, tracing the words: ‘For my favorite fan, Hunter V. To eternity and beyond.’

She blinked, glancing up at me. “This signature… it’s legitimate?”

“Yes,” I replied, settling deeper into my chair as I signed more of the papers in front of me. “My brothers hate that I sometimes quote him daily. His work was groundbreaking in the Science Fiction world. It still is.”

I let my mind drift for a moment, recalling the day I met Heinlein. It had been in the late 1970s, when he was still sharp, still full of fire. He had a presence that commanded attention—not in an overbearing way, but in the way of a man who had spent decades shaping the minds of dreamers. His ideas were bold, sometimes controversial, but always thought-provoking.

He spoke with the precision of an engineer, the conviction of a philosopher, and the wit of a man who had seen the world change around him. I remember him discussing The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress with a gleam in his eye, explaining how its themes of revolution and self-governance were inspired by real-world political movements. He had a way of making science fiction feel like prophecy, as if he were merely documenting the inevitable future.

And then there was his humor—dry, sharp, and laced with wisdom. He had once joked that the secret to longevity was “being too damn stubborn to die,” and I had laughed, knowing that if anyone could defy time, it would have been him.

Maria’s voice pulled me back to the present.

“You actually met him,” she murmured, her tone softer now, more contemplative.

I nodded. “And I’ll never forget it.”

She turned back to stare at the fire that crackled softly in the hearth. Shadows flickered along the walls, bending and shifting with the dance of flames. The firelight caught in the midnight depths of her hair, illuminating streaks of obsidian and sapphire that glowed like something otherworldly. Her olive-toned skin absorbed the warmth of the flickering light, the contrast deepening the contours of her high cheekbones and sharp jawline.

Her lips—full, unyielding—pressed into a thin line as she watched the embers shift, the orange glow reflected in her narrowed brown-green eyes. That gaze, intense and calculating, held something far more complex than irritation. I watched her just as closely, noting the way the tension in her shoulders made her appear poised for battle even in the stillness.

“Stupid Alpha,” she muttered under her breath, voice low but cutting. Whatever Logan had done—or said—had clearly done nothing to ease her mood.

Stanley once chalked it up to her being a hormonal teenage girl, but I knew better. It was so much more than that. She carried something deeper, something that never quite faded, no matter how much time passed. My gaze flickered to her hands, the way her fingers curled slightly as if bracing against a memory. The marks—permanent, undeniable—had something to do with it.

“What is the matter?” I questioned as I finished the final bit of paperwork, setting my pen down deliberately. “Has Logan done something to upset you? If you like, I could talk to him.”

Maria scoffed at me. “A.D.D. much, Hunter?”

Curious about the combination of letters, I asked her to repeat herself, fully aware I was risking getting told off. “Can I bother you for an explanation?”

“Seriously? It stands for Attention Deficit Disorder. I only said it because you go from one topic to another so fast I’m surprised your brothers have let you live this long. When and if you ever leave the manor, it's to feed. Otherwise, you throw yourself into work every day,” she replied with a heavy sigh, shaking her head.

I watched her carefully, noting the frustration lining her features, the slight furrow between her brows. She wasn’t just teasing—there was something deeper beneath her words.

“I don’t understand how someone as old as you could still be a virgin, by the way. I could probably use you as an example for the other guys that can’t wait.”

I barely resisted rolling my eyes.

“The need for procreation has become a game,” I said calmly, keeping my tone measured. My brothers were going to hear it for spilling that particular secret. “Most are so concerned with making themselves feel good that they effectively ruin their relationships and tear families apart.”

The words hung in the air between us, heavier than I intended, but my mind had already drifted elsewhere—to the insufferable loose tongues of my brothers. Who was it that spilled? Who had the balls to open their mouths and give her that emasculating information before I was able to do so for myself?

Likely Vincent. He’d been eager to rat me out not long ago, after all.

Of course they would spread that little fact around, probably making bets on whether I’d finally cave after centuries of restraint. The next time I saw them, I was going to remind them—forcefully—that some things were meant to stay private. Maybe a sparring session was in order, something to remind them that my patience didn’t extend to their meddling.

They would undoubtedly come up with excuses—Oh, we didn’t think you’d care, or It was just a harmless conversation. Logan, always quick with a smirk, would probably joke that I was practically a living relic, refusing to indulge in something everyone else took for granted. I could hear it now—his patronizing tone, his endless amusement at my choices.

I leaned back, gripping my pen a little tighter than necessary. The urge to plot some petty revenge curled at the edges of my thoughts—nothing drastic, just enough to make them regret ever opening their mouths. Logan could deal with a sudden influx of bureaucratic nonsense, paperwork that conveniently required his signature on every page. The others? Maybe a few well-timed pranks, reminders that I was older, wiser, and not above a little retaliation.

Yes. That would do.

Sitting in the chair opposite hers, I gingerly picked up the decanter of wine one of the workers had left behind. Maria’s eyes never left me, tracking every movement with sharp precision, the flickering firelight casting fleeting shadows across her face.

“What is that?” she asked, her voice quieter now, guarded.

“Wine,” I replied cautiously, watching as she swallowed hard, a flicker of unease tightening her expression. The sickly look that crossed her face unsettled me.

“Would it bother you if I had a glass?” I asked as gently as I could, keeping my voice even.

When she said nothing, I placed the decanter down on the table between us with deliberate care, sighing. “Maria, if I am doing something that bothers you, I expect you to tell me so that I can put your mind to rest.”

She scoffed, her laugh sharp and without humor. “Why, so you can hold it over my head later that you changed for me? I’m not a game for you to play with when you feel like it.”

The accusation had made me angry, but there was a truth to her words. Too many times, I had seen other men doing the same thing to their women.

No, not men. Boys who had yet to grow up.

The kind that viewed relationships as transactions, twisting kindness into control while tallying favors like debts that needed to be repaid. I had witnessed it more times than I cared to count. Empty apologies followed by guilt-laced demands, affection used as currency rather than something freely given. It disgusted me.