Eventide of the Bear (The Wild Hunt Legacy #3) by Cherise Sinclair Read Free Book Online Page B

to get air into his lungs. It felt as if the bear had pinned him with a heavy paw. “I—fuck, Ben. I’m…”
    The broad, strong face closed up.
    Ryder’s words shriveled into dust. His brother should have yelled. As small cubs, they’d tussled and argued; as adults, they’d shouted and fought, yet united together against all comers. His littermate had never shut him out before.
    People who saw Ben as easygoing hadn’t seen his steel backbone. Injustice and cruelty brought out the bear’s fury. Apparently, so did being hurt.
    Ryder’s hopes sank faster than a rock in the lake.
    “What the fuck do you want here?” Ben’s voice was a low growl, deeper than it had been before.
    “I came to—”
    “No.” The growl grew to a shout. “No word from you for five fucking years. Bad enough you chose a female over me, but then you walked away as if I was old scat. You made your choice, bro .”
    The emphasis was ugly—and showed the damage he’d done to his littermate.
    My fault. My obsession with a female. Fuck.
    Ryder let out a breath. Nothing left to say, was there? “Right. I’m sorry, Ben.”
    Ryder’s footsteps thudded hollowly on the wood as he crossed the porch. “Let’s go, kitten.”
    She gave him a worried look, her thumb in her mouth.
    His heart twisted. By the God, he’d give his left arm, both arms, if it meant she’d be safe. Never have to worry again. Carefully, he picked her up.
    Behind him came a sound as if Ben had gotten a fist in the gut.
    Ryder glanced back.
    Ben stared at Minette. His voice shook as he asked, “You have a cub?”
    *
    An hour later, in the kitchen, Ben watched his littermate at the sink. By Herne’s heavy balls, Ryder had grown even better looking over the years. Maybe four of so inches short of Ben’s God-given six feet six, his brother had the lean musculature and grace of a panther shifter. Classically handsome, he’d drawn the females like bees to spilled honey.
    Although he and Ben shared the angular cheekbones, straight nose, and thick hair of their mother, Ben’s broad features and frame showed his Scottish/Welsh heritage. His light skin held a tan only because of hours in the sun.
    From his sire’s side, Ryder’s heritage was French and, oddly enough, African American. Either the Fae’s Wild Hunt had ventured farther afield than commonly believed, or a dying Daonain had Death Gifted one of Ryder’s ancestors with shifter blood. Whatever the original cause, Ryder was dark-eyed with light, saddle-brown skin.
    Even their personalities were different. Ben preferred things neat—kept his hair short. Was clean-shaven. His littermate didn’t give a fuck about his appearance; he’d tie his shoulder-length black hair back if it got in his way. His jaw was dark with stubble.
    Ben had a slow Texas drawl—and he enjoyed talking.
    Ryder’s speech showed his years in Idaho, and the cat would sooner claw a person than talk to him. But when Ryder did speak, people listened. He was damn smart.
    Although brothers, they were as different as mountain and valley. Yet at one time, they’d run the trails as a pair. He flinched at the painful thought. Like a rose bush, even the loveliest memories could hide thorns.
    Silently—no surprise there—Ryder gave his daughter a drink from the covered glass he’d called a sippy cup.
    Such a tiny cub. They’d had to place a box on the chair to give her a seat high enough for the table. She couldn’t be older than about four.
    Ben took a sip of beer. “She got a name?”
    Ryder nodded. “This is Minette.” When Ben lifted his eyebrows at the French name, he nodded again. “Yes, Genevieve’s one and only. Apparently, Minette’s womb-mates were stillborn.”
    “Ah, hell, I’m sorry.” Ryder’s cub. If he and Ben had mated the same female—as did most littermates—Minette would’ve been Ben’s daughter, no matter whose sperm had done the deed. Anger and grief roiled inside him, eroding his delight at her existence.