Page 37 of Hunted

‘Perhaps you would do well sensing things within yourself. If you know me as well as you seem to believe, then you’ll know I do not race. Whatever I wish for comes to me. Eventually.’

My gaze drifts to the obsidian pedestal across the room where the Sovereign Ledger rests. The original financial charter that formalised supernatural commerce in the modern world. The document Dorian spent two decades courting, believing it would secure London’s dominance for another century.

The document I acquired in a single night.

‘You remember Geneva?’ I ask softly. ‘You believed you had secured every vote. And you had… until I arrived.’

His exhale is faint. Measured. But I hear the steel beneath it. ‘That was business.’

‘It was inevitability.’

The Ledger shifted more than markets. It shifted allegiance, prestige and power. It placed New York above London in every circle that mattered.

Dorian has never forgiven me. He never will.

‘You should listen when caution is advised, Valentin,’ he says. ‘What you seek may not wish to be found. And if you falter…’ He lets the sentence trail off.

‘For all our sakes, some things are better left buried.’

Ah. So he has heard something. Perhaps about the graves. Maybe about the bounty hunter.

But not the mark. I have trusted no one with that.

‘I will manage my affairs as I always have.’

‘And if you do not?’ he asks lightly, the aristocrat mask sliding back into place. ‘Do be careful. It would be… unfortunate if history failed to repeat itself.’

I allow a thin smile he cannot see.

‘History, when it repeats itself, will be in my favour. And if I fail, then I suppose you will discover the hard way whether New York suits you.’

A long pause.

‘Take care, brother,’ he says finally.

I end the call. And for a full minute, I still my breath and lock my senses down to iron discipline. Mind shuttered. Wards drawn tight. The brothers of the Five Blood Thrones can read thoughts across oceans, and while permission can be requested for a mind-to-mind conversation, not all of them are courteous enough to wait.

Dorian Vale is the worst offender.

I feel for intrusion.

Nothing. But brother lingers. He is measuring me. Weighing probability. Calculating inheritance.

The quiet that follows is brittle enough to fracture bone.

With a feral snarl, I rip a painting from the wall and hurl it across the room. Canvas tears. The frame splinters against stone.

The destruction is brief and total. Contained to that single act. And control reasserted, I breathe once.

Twice.

Calm settles back into place. If they are circling, I will not show blood. If they are watching, I will not blink.

I retrieve a fresh shirt, button it with precise movements, and straighten my cuffs.

The Heartshard Glass reflects a man composed, sovereign, unassailable. Entirely in control.

The mark burns beneath the fabric as I step out of the bedroom, and a strange urgency curls in my chest.