Page 3 of Hunted

The words are quiet, almost kind.

That makes them worse.

I swallow. ‘Are you going to hurt me?’

He smiles slightly. ‘Maybe. But it’s the kind of pain you’ll welcome.’

My breath catches. Everyone knows about vampire bites. Rumoured to make you docile, pliant, eager to please, sexually and otherwise.

I shake my head. ‘I won’t let you.’

He moves before I see him cross the space. One moment he’s by the window, the next he stands over me, fingers lifting a strand of hair from my face. The scent of him is clean metal and winter air.

‘Hellfire,’ he murmurs, almost to himself, ‘your scent is intoxicating. Let me see your face, pet.’

I pull the cover higher. ‘No.’

His pupils widen, red surfacing at the edges, making him look both human and not. For an instant, I fear he’ll force my compliance.

Instead, he draws another slow breath.

‘Please,’ I say.

He stops. The word reaches him in a way nothing else has. His jaw tightens. The red fades from his eyes.

‘You’re afraid.’ His tone has lost its chill. ‘That’s good. Fear means you understand what I am. But I don’t take what isn’t ready to be taken.’

He stares down at me, as if debating with himself. Then he straightens, restoring the distance between us. ‘You need time, Lyra Hannigan. I will give it to you.’

‘How much time? When will you…?’

I can’t finish.

‘When you stop trembling at my name. And trembling for a different reason.’

He prowls to the window with the grace of the Lord of the Night he is, then pauses on the sill, looking back once.

‘I’ll be back. Don’t make me chase you.’

Then he’s gone.

The curtains move in the night air.

I sit motionless, the sheet clenched in my hands, while the clock downstairs begins its slow count towards dawn.

When the first trace of light reaches the floorboards, I rise, go to my closet, and begin to pack.

I don’t know where I’ll go or how far I’ll get.

I only know I can’t be here when Valentin Moretti returns.

1

EIRA

New Orleans

I drop from the fire escape without breaking stride, boots hitting wet concrete as the shifter bolts across Dauphine Street and clips a trash can hard enough to scatter bottles.