Page 80 of Hunted

I know attempting to dislodge him from my home and sanctuary would be as effective as trying to dislodge a mountain with a fork. But worse? My body has already made its decision and is busy explaining it to the rest of me in humiliating detail.

‘I believe I mentioned thinning patience, did I not?’ he drawls, the words smooth, the bite beneath them unmistakable.

‘Sure, sure. But you also accused me of being wilfully blind, so shouldn’t you be awarding me a gold star for taking a beat?’

Touché gleams in his eyes, though of course he’s too arrogant to concede out loud. He doesn’t move back either. Just remains a fraction of an inch away from contact, waiting to see if I’ll flinch first.

I glide my tongue over my bottom lip, then immediately regret it when his gaze drops with cruel precision.

‘Okay,’ I say, needing sound before the silence turns into a pressure I can’t push back against. ‘Before you do whatever dramatic thing you’re about to do, answer me something.’

‘You are stalling.’

‘Obviously.’

The corner of his mouth tightens, and I take petty satisfaction in that. If I can’t win in any meaningful way, I’ll take crumbs.

‘Fine,’ he says, clipped patience that isn’t patience at all. ‘Ask.’

I lift my chin another notch. If I’m going to bargain with a monster in my own bedroom, I’m not doing it while looking up at him like prey.

‘Truth or myth,’ I say. ‘Vampires can’t lie.’

The silver stills.

That alone is an answer, but I don’t want half-answers from him. Half-answers are where men like him hide knives. His gaze holds mine, cool and fixed, and for a moment I get the distinct, unsettling sense that he’s weighing something heavier than the question; like consequence, like whether letting me know the truth gives me leverage he doesn’t want me to have.

‘It is true,’ he says at last.

My stomach dips, mouth going dry, then weirdly wet again, like my body can’t decide whether to panic or lean in. ‘So you literally can’t lie. Not even if you wanted to.’

‘I am capable of many things,’ he replies, warning wrapped in elegance, ‘but falsehood is not one of them.’

‘Is it because your eyes and other body parts bleed if you do?’ I ask, because humour is my last shield and I’m not above using it, even when I’m terrified that the creature in front of me could tear my spine out in a millisecond and probably get bored halfway through.

His eyes narrow.

Before he can speak, I add, ‘I know, I know. Too much TV.’

His nostrils flare again.

Then he steps back.

For a fraction of a second, stupid panic hits me. I wanted him away from me, and yet the moment he moves, the air feels colder. Emptier.

Then I feel it.

The same invisible pressure from the Vaults. The same thick hush, as if sound is being swallowed before it can reach my ears. It crawls over my skin, pins me from the outside in, gravity suddenly picking sides.

My fingers go numb.

My lungs still work, technically, but each breath feels rationed. Like he’s gifting me just enough air not to suffocate.

No, no, no.

I try to jerk away and fail.

Panic flares, clean and brutal. I’ve been caged before. Hunted. Cornered. Held down by things with teeth and hands and ugly intentions. But this is worse because it’s invisible. Because it makes my own body betray me without leaving a mark.