Page 48 of Hunted

Her eyes flash. ‘You don’t get to⁠—’

‘Permission,’ I repeat, softer, sharper. ‘There is no violation if you allow me to see this piece of information.’

We both know I will be doing more than replaying a memory. I will be testing the boundaries and fortitude of Eira Cross’s mind.

She can refuse.

But I am banking on her defiance.

Sure enough, through gritted teeth, she snaps, ‘Fine. Take the memory. And only that memory,’ she warns. ‘I’ll know if you don’t, Don Moretti.’

The corner of my mouth almost curves. ‘Are you sure you will know? Do I need to tell you how long I’ve been alive, little hunter?’

Her throat moves in a swallow she attempts to keep slow and deliberate. Her eyes remain fierce, but I scent the faintest wave of nerves.

It brings a peculiar flood to my mouth. That craving for her fear, to watch her pulse race that little bit faster, claws at the walls of my control.

‘Do it. I don’t have all night.’

‘You do if I say so, little bird.’

A sound halfway between a snort and rage spills from her before she can stop it.

She is right. This has gone on too long already.

So I lean in.

The world narrows to us. To the smooth skin just out of reach. To that impetuous mouth that draws me deeper with each passing second.

Then I reach with my mind and slide into the offered thread with surgical restraint, past the hum of blood and firing synapses to the kernel of information lit like a beacon.

Port Authority.

Exactly as she said.

Grainy camera footage. A girl with dark hair pulled back, her face turned away. She speaks to a stranger in the line at the ticket counter. A young man, I note with a sliver of uncontrollable fury and acid jealousy. One who smiles at whatever request she makes and nods eagerly.

Lyra stays to the side as he procures the ticket. She takes it, shakes her head at the embarrassingly obvious interest he fumbles towards her, then walks away swiftly, curiously never exposing her face fully to the camera.

The next clip shows the destination where she was meant to arrive.

Even before the bus empties, I know she will not appear. She managed to lose herself after boarding.

The memory ends, but I do not withdraw at once.

I remain within the narrow corridor she has permitted, holding the thread lightly while brushing the edges of her mind with deliberate subtlety. Not enough to violate permission. Enough to test.

Most humans’ thoughts splinter at the first touch. Most hunters brace, their defences more theatrical than structural.

Eira’s mind does not fracture.

It hardens.

I push a touch harder and jolt against walls layered with architectural precision rather than panic. Barricades shift, doors seal, corridors redirect. Access narrows to the single sanctioned memory.

Everything else becomes very neutral grey.

Very deliberately, I drag a sharp mental nail down one barricade.