Bull Moon Rising (Royal Artifactual Guild #1) Read Online Ruby Dixon

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Fantasy/Sci-fi, Paranormal Tags Authors: Series: Royal Artifactual Guild Series by Ruby Dixon
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Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
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His eyes narrow. “So you do want me to spank you.”

Now we’re both breathing hard.

“Hey, uh,” Lark says. “I think I speak for all of us when I say ‘What the fuck?’ ”

“Mind your business,” Hawk says, not looking away from me. I don’t look away from him, either. If I continue to meet him glare for glare, is he going to make good on his word? Is he going to turn me over on his knee and spank me, his hand on my bare buttocks, me helpless and splayed over his lap…?

Mercy, that should not be as arousing as it is. I blink up at Hawk, and I could swear I see a hint of red in the gleam of his eyes. Is it the moon making him act like this…or does he really want me? It’s most likely the Conquest Moon, as he’s drummed into my ears over and over again, and the realization dampens my arousal.

I’m just convenient, nothing more.

Before I can come up with a response, there’s a distant sound in the woods like that of branches snapping. We all turn, and then a voice calls out, “Ho! Is someone there?”

“Ho,” Magpie calls back in greeting, cupping a hand to her face. “Over here! By the stream!”

To my surprise, the pack I have on my shoulder slips. One of the straps falls away and I turn to grab it, only for the entire thing to tumble to the ground with a wet slap. The blankets, foodstuffs, dry boots, and everything else spill out into the mud, and I want to scream in frustration. Just what I needed.

Gwenna kneels down next to me, picking up one of my boots. “You clumsy, silly thing,” she loudly exclaims as the riders make their way toward us.

I pick up one end of the strap, noticing it’s been unbuckled. What the—

“Pull your hood up,” Gwenna whispers to me. “Do it now. Quickly.”

There’s an urgency in her voice I’ve never heard before. I pull my sodden hood over my hair, looking up at her in surprise. I reach for the boot but she holds on to it, and her gaze meets mine. There’s a warning in her eyes.

“Greetings, greetings,” a man says in a cultured voice, his accent that of the north. Like mine. “Is there a better place to cross this water? My lord Barnabus’s horse has lost a shoe and is too expensive to risk laming on the rocks.”

I freeze, ice going up my spine. Lord Barnabus Chatworth? He’s here?

Gwenna gives me the boot, her expression firm, as if to say See?

Oh, I see now. I take my time shoving things back into my pack, determined to make it last as long as possible. I wonder if I can get sick on command? Right now my stomach is roiling enough that I wouldn’t have to try too hard. Barnabus is here. Why? He’s made it clear to me in the past that busy, dangerous Vastwarren holds no interest for him. Surely he hasn’t come to retrieve me.

“The stream crossing narrows farther down the hillside,” Magpie explains. “You’re heading in the wrong direction if you want things to get easier. Only gets wider from up here, but it ain’t deep. If your horse can’t cross this you’ve got bigger problems.”

Hawk chuckles. Mereden and Lark do, too. I don’t hear anyone else laughing, though, and my pulse pounds in my ears. Barnabus is here. I’ve been found out. Woodenly, I pick up a soggy piece of clothing and pause, panic rising in my throat. I’m going to lose everything. I’m going to be destroyed. Not only will my father and grandmother be in danger, but our hold will go down in flames. And Hawk—

“Clumsy twit,” Gwenna says in an exasperated voice. “Let me help.” And she kneels next to me and pulls everything back out of my pack. “You’re not going to be able to fit everything in again. Watch how I do it.”

“Thank you,” I mouth to her, squeezing my trembling hands into fists.

The horses grow louder, the sounds of their hooves in the mud and the jingle of harnesses like death knells to me. I glance over, peeking out the side of my hood, and there are at least a half dozen horses around the edge of the stream, the men wearing a familiar livery. I recognize the house colors of their jerkins, the Chatworth Hold deep blue with the bold yellow trim that stands out even to my bad eyes. One of the men is walking, leading a horse by the reins. And then to my horror, Barnabus himself rides up, eyes the stream, and turns to look at our group.

I quickly hide my face again.

“What is going on here?” he asks, voice just as cultured and haughty as I remember. I used to love how precisely he said each syllable, as if he were biting them. Now I know it’s just a tactic to put himself above others. To show them that he’s superior because he has holder blood.


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