Page 110 of Hunted

EIRA

Danger. Death. Tezra.

In the living room, which feels too polished for grief, especially after what happened, Valentin loosens his cuffs, gaze on me.

‘I don’t believe in coincidence,’ he says.

‘Good. Neither do I.’

His jaw clenches. Then he crosses to the bar.

Crystal clicks. Amber liquid tips into one glass, something darker into his.

I tell myself I’m watching for cues and clues when he holds the drink out, not because I’m finding it near impossible to take my eyes off him.

I take it. Drink, even though I shouldn’t. It goes down too fast, heat blooming through my chest, and for one second I let it blunt the edges because if I don’t, I might start shaking, and I’m not doing that in front of him.

Valentin sets his own glass down untouched and shrugs off his jacket. My eyes, traitors to the last, follow the dark fabric sliding from his shoulders, the ripple of muscle beneath his shirt, the elegant economy of a body built for violence and command and, apparently, sublime pussy-eating technique.

Memory flashes hot and utterly inappropriate: his mouth between my thighs, the slow devastating drag of his tongue.

I snap my focus back so hard it’s almost painful, expecting him to say more. Strategy. Threat assessment. Territorial outrage. One of his cool, precise little speeches about enemies, power and the inevitable cost of crossing him.

Instead, he crosses the room in a blur.

One second he’s by the bar, all dark focus and sharpened control. The next he has me by the waist, my drink somehow removed from my hand and set down somewhere I don’t register, and I’m propped against his desk with my hips pressed to polished wood and his mouth descending on mine like the conversation can wait but this cannot.

What the fuck?

Also… yes, please.

The kiss is hungry and furious in a way the earlier ones were not, fuelled by this maddening chemistry between us and whatever he found in that alley. His discovery cracked something in him, and I’m the nearest outlet.

I moan as his mouth claims mine with a roughness that should feel punishing and somehow doesn’t, because he still holds the line with those infuriating micro-restraints of his. Still gives me enough room to answer, to bite back, to make this a fight as much as a surrender.

So I do.

I kiss him back with all my outrage, grief and confusion. With the shock of Tezra’s death and the fresh hell of wanting comfort from the wrong creature in the room. My fingers fist in his shirt, his hand tightens at my waist, and for a full chaotic minute we clash and part and find rhythm again, breath turning ragged, control turning abstract.

When I finally plant my palms on his chest, it’s less because I’ve suddenly become stronger than a centuries-old vampire and more because I’m on the verge of forgetting why we’re standing here.

He moves back.

‘We need to talk about this, Valentin.’

His gaze stays on my mouth for one dark, hungry second before he nods. ‘Agreed.’

I inhale carefully. ‘The only reason to target Tezra is because someone wants to know where he took me. What I’m working on. For you. But if your PI was murdered too, then…’ I have to look away because not even the best poker face can hide the horror threatening to drown me. ‘Then someone wanted to stop you from finding Lyra Hannigan a long time ago.’

His eyes go pitch black by the time I’m done. No silver or arousal or readable barometer. Just black, absolute and depthless.

‘I reached that conclusion too, yes.’

My heart lurches at the confirmation I half-hoped he’d bat away. ‘Why? Surely this fated mate thing isn’t…’ I make a helpless, angry gesture because what even is the noun for this? Curse? Cosmic HR assignment? ‘I mean, it’s not some illegal vampire shit, is it?’

One dark brow lifts. ‘Illegal vampire shit?’

Despite the death and danger, there’s a thread of dry amusement in his voice.