Page 144 of Hunted

‘Don’t.’

Another loaded silence. ‘Very well. We will speak of the potion.’

I exhale, relief and suspicion tangling.

‘Bride’s Mercy will blur your blood signature. For a time. Enough that a taste will not name you.’

‘A taste?’ I repeat. ‘Again. He’s not biting me.’

Her silence is pure judgement.

Then, quieter, ‘Do not let him drink deeply.’

My fingers tighten on the phone. ‘Why? What happens if he does? Not that I’m planning on letting him anywhere near my throat,’ I add quickly, because my pride refuses to be reasonable, ‘but, you know… just in case. Academic curiosity.’

When she speaks, her voice is lower, almost intimate. ‘He might like it too much.’

My skin prickles.

‘And so might you,’ she adds.

My mouth goes dry. ‘Excuse me? What does that mean, Selphine? And don’t give me any of your cryptic bullish… jargon.’

She ignores the question wrapped around my mini-tantrum. ‘Take it before. Not after. Do not let him drink deeply. And remember this. Time is running out.’

‘Running out for who?’

‘For everyone.’

I stare at the vial, the pretty name that sounds like a blessing and feels like a trap. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

Selphine laughs softly, and my spine goes cold. ‘So many things, child. All you need to remember is that I’ve never steered you wrong.’

The line goes dead.

I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, while somewhere deep in this Tower a vampire is counting down towards an ending he refuses to accept.

And in my palm, Selphine’s vial sits warm as a secret.

Bride’s Mercy.

A potion meant to save me.

Or ruin me.

Probably both.

I pace for exactly forty-seven seconds before admitting the truth.

I’m going to drink it.

Not because I trust Selphine. Gods, no. Even though I grudgingly admit that she’s right – she’s never steered me wrong. Because I trust the direction my life is going in even less, and because I’ve already let Valentin Moretti into too many dangerous places. My space. My mind. My mouth. My body.

If this vial buys me time, cover, one thin layer of protection from the thing that rises in him every time he looks at my throat, I’m taking it.

‘Bride’s Mercy,’ I mutter. ‘Sure.’

Then I uncork it and swallow.