Page 2 of Hunted

Through the gap, I catch a glimpse of black hair, pale skin, silver eyes rimmed with faint red.

He doesn’t move for a long breath.

Then he says softly, ‘You have an eavesdropper, Mr Hannigan.’

My father looks towards the doorway. ‘Lyra, go to your room.’

I don’t move. I can’t.

The vampire steps closer, his attention fixed on the dark space where I kneel.

‘So this is the collateral,’ he says.

‘She’s not—’ my father begins.

‘Quiet.’

Although it shouldn’t be possible for him to see me in the dark, Moretti looks straight at me.

His expression doesn’t change, but the air does. Rain and old wood scents deepen around me, carrying a metallic trace that makes me dizzy.

He smiles without warmth. ‘I will take your offer after all,’ he says. ‘Not tonight. But soon.’

He turns away, broad shoulders bristling with lethal purpose.

‘Three years. I will come for her within that time.’

My father sags with relief.

I grip the railing until my fingers hurt.

The night he returns is ordinary.

No rain or thunder, only the faint ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs and a stillness sharp enough to disturb me.

Perhaps it’s the too-stillness that rouses me.

Pale moonlight spills through the curtains, but I don’t need light to sense the presence in the room as my heart leaps into my throat.

The figure by my bed is a shadow until he speaks. ‘You shouldn’t leave your window unlocked.’

My pulse slams once against my throat. Through the heavy curtain of my hair I see the shadow shift.

‘Who—?’

He steps forward. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t remember.’

Valentin Moretti stands beside my bed, the light drawing a silver edge along his collar and cuffs. His ferocity fills every corner of the room, more real than memory, more dangerous than nightmare.

‘I told you I would come,’ he says.

I push myself against the headboard and draw the covers to my chin. ‘Why? What do you want?’

He tilts his head. ‘To decide if your father’s debt was worth collecting.’

‘You said you’d come for me in… in three years. It’s been three m-months.’

‘I did.’ His gaze drops briefly to my shoulder bared by the shifting nightie, then to the tiny patch of throat not hidden by the covers. ‘I’m not sure if I meant it then. But I am sure now. You will be mine, Lyra Hannigan.’