Hunting Winter

They left me for dead. Now I’m pretty sure I’d have been better off…

I used to be the princess of Blackmoor. Rich, beautiful, engaged to be married to the heir. Dean Blackmoor was supposed to win the game, accept my hand in marriage, and rule this town with me. I was supposed to be the closest thing there is to a queen these days. Pampered. Adored. Untouchable. Instead Dean picked his pet over me. Threw me out and left me for dead. But I don’t remember any of that. Now, someone else says he’s had his eye on me. He says he’s been watching me. Following me. Wanting me. He says his name is Gabriel Martinez, but he’s no angel. He’s the lowest of the low, a man that the princess of Blackmoor would never have looked at, let alone touched. He’s a savage, a killer. And my stalker.He says he’s not going to let me go.And if I try to run away?

He says he’ll hunt me down until I’m his again.

Hunting Winter is the first in the Blackmoor Revenge trilogy, featuring Winter and Gabriel. This is a dark romance, and sensitive readers should be aware that there are no heroes or heroines in this story. This book contains material which may be difficult for some readers, and features characters that are damaged, and morally grey at best.

Winter

 It’s dark when I wake up, and it smells. Like what, exactly, I’m not sure, but it’s not all that pleasant. Something like gasoline and grease, with a faint tang of sweat and alcohol. It takes me a moment to open my eyes, and I’m not entirely sure I want to. I’m pretty sure that I’m dead and that this is hell, and I’m not in any hurry to find out what’s waiting for me. It’s also colder than I would have thought. But I can’t imagine any other place that smells like this. I half expect the gasoline smell to ignite at any second, engulfing me in flames.

But as my senses return a little more, and I shift uncomfortably, I start to question that. I think I’m on a bed, a scratchy blanket over me. I go to move my hands to touch it, but I can’t.

They’re over my head. And it’s then that I realize there’s something around my wrists, holding them in place.

I’m tied down.

Fear, cold and startling, shocks me down to my bones, and my eyes fly open. It’s dark in the room that I’m in, but there’s enough moonlight creeping in from the blinds covering the window above me to see the outlines of the things in the room. I’m lying on a bed in the center, an end-table on one side, a dresser against the far wall. Posters on the walls, the shapes of naked women, motorcycles, and cars vaguely silhouetted on them.

With the new awareness comes pain, too. Pain in my head, sharp and brilliant, shooting through me as I twist in the bed, trying to yank my wrists loose. I stop almost immediately because that brings a new kind of pain, blossoming through me and sucking every ounce of air out of my body.

What happened? I try to remember. All I can gather are fuzzy shapes and vague outlines, like a television channel with bad reception. I try to think back as far as I can, to remember what I might have been doing that could have resulted in this, waking up tied to an uncomfortable bed in a strange place, every part of my body hurting as if I’ve been beaten.

Maybe that’s what happened. Fresh terror bubbles up in me, and I try to breathe, fighting back a panic attack. Perhaps I’ve been kidnapped, beaten, hurt in some way. Or maybe I was in an accident and was rescued—but the fact that I’m currently tied up indicates that’s probably not the case.

I squirm on the mattress, trying to find some way out of this, but all that does is make me realize that I’m naked underneath the blanket. Oh my god. A dozen horrific scenarios rush through my head, and I start to cry, tears welling up in my eyes and sliding down my cheeks. My nose stuffs up instantly, and fresh pain ricochets through my skull, making me cry harder.

What did I do to deserve this? I can’t remember anything that I could have done that would have gotten me into this literal bind. And then, as I push my mind to think back further, more, I have the skin-crawling realization that that’s truer than I originally thought.

I can’t remember anything. Not just what I might have done or who I might have pissed off to get me here, but anything at all. Not what happened before I woke up, where I am, where I live, or what I do. Nothing about who I am. Not even my name.

Oh god.

I must have been in some kind of accident. Or maybe whoever brought me here and tied me up is responsible for the fact that I can’t remember—but I must have had some kind of head injury. Something severe enough to wipe my mind clean, leaving almost nothing helpful behind.

Those can heal, right? I try to think of anything I’ve ever heard about memory loss, any bad movies I’ve ever watched with amnesia as the plot, but all that’s gone, too. It’s like whoever I was before is gone, replaced with this shell of myself that’s lying here, in an unfamiliar room, waiting for someone to walk in and tell me what the fuck is going on.

I’m both dreading and looking forward to that because whoever comes, I doubt they’ll be someone I want to see. Not considering my current situation. But at least I might have some answers.

Despite my rising panic, my injuries and exhaustion take over, and I drift back to sleep for a while. My dreams are fuzzy too, blurred faces and a room I don’t recognize, full of screams and blood and the feeling of being tossed through the air, floating and then falling. It’s the falling that jerks me awake, making me gasp aloud as my body jackknifes in the bed, trying to sit up and the bonds on my wrists preventing me from doing that. I sink back against the pillows, gasping, and then I realize that the dream wasn’t the only thing that woke me.

The doorknob is turning, and I stiffen, feeling myself instinctively try to move backward as the door swings open, revealing a man standing there, looking straight at me.

It takes me a moment to register what I’m seeing. I’d expected someone old or ugly, disgusting and vile, and this man certainly might be those latter things on the inside. Almost surely, if he’s the kind of man who would leave a girl tied to the bed.

But he’s not old, and he’s not ugly.

He looks like he’s in his mid-twenties at most, with deeply tanned skin and dark eyes and thick black hair swept away from his face. He’s dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt with stains along the hem that looks like grease and motorcycle boots, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he leans against the doorjamb, taking his time as he watches me. His features are strong, his jaw sharp and defined, and he’s looking at me as if he’s not at all surprised to see me there, a smirk on his full lips.

I can’t remember any other men I might have known before this, but I’m sure he’s got to be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.

“Winter. You’re awake.” He raises an eyebrow, and I stare at him, shocked.

“How—how do you know my name?” I swallow hard, wincing at the pain in my throat. It feels raw, the words scraping over and up it, and I choose my next ones carefully, not wanting to talk more than necessary. “Who are you?”

The man in the doorway shifts, ignoring the first question entirely. Instead, he answers the second one, his eyes sweeping over me hungrily as if he knew what I looked like underneath the blanket. Something in his dark eyes is almost predatory, freezing me in place, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as he starts to speak.

“My name is Gabriel Martinez,” he says, his voice slightly accented when he says it. “And you, Winter?” He pushes himself off the doorjamb, a smile spreading across his face. “You are mine.