Page 36 of Hunted

I stiffen, irritation spiking and battling dread when I see the name on the screen.

Lord Dorian Vale.

We have not spoken in five years, and coincidence is the last refuge of fools.

I answer without greeting. ‘You have unimpeachable timing.’

A subtle hint to fuck off, if ever there was one.

‘Good day to you too, Valentin.’

‘What do you want, Dorian?’ I snap. ‘And let us not insult each other with vacuous pleasantries.’

‘Very well. A little bird tells me you’ve misplaced an ornament,’ Dorian drawls, his English aristocrat voice pebble-smooth with amusement. ‘How careless of you.’

Ornament.

He wants me to react. I do not. ‘You’re mistaken. There is nothing misplaced.’

‘Of course. And yet New York whispers. When New York whispers, Chicago listens. London listens. Ireland sharpens its ears and Sicily breaks out the limoncello.’

My jaw tightens infinitesimally. ‘Your concern is touching. But unnecessary.’

‘Is it?’ he muses. ‘One does hate to see instability. Particularly in such lucrative territory.’

There it is. Threat and greed, polished into civility.

If I fall, New York fractures. Its veins reroute to the remaining Five Blood Thrones, its influence redistributed among those who remain.

‘Your opportunism is showing.’

He laughs. ‘You wound me. I merely wish to ensure my brother is well.’

Brother.

He has not used that term in over a century.

‘I am perfectly well.’

‘Excellent. Then perhaps I shall pay a surprise visit. We are long overdue a family reunion.’

Territorial law is ancient and absolute. None of the Five enters another’s dominion without notice. Without blood-stamped invitation. To do so would be a declaration of war.

‘That would be unwise, brother. You know the protocols.’

‘Protocols bend,’ Dorian murmurs. ‘Especially when one senses… things.’

‘And what exactly do you believe you sense?’

Silence stretches. He tests its edges, searching for fracture.

‘You’re stirring waters best left calm,’ he says at last. ‘If what I hear is true, you’re racing something you cannot outrun. You should consider letting order take its course. Natural or otherwise.’

My mark flares, heat slicing through muscle.

I don’t have a choice. As you well know, you fucking bastard.

After five centuries, I’m staring mortality in the throat.