Page 114 of Hunted

‘Yes.’

The sheer audacity of him. ‘Valentin⁠—’

‘Eira.’

My name in his mouth is quieter than the interruption should be. More effective too.

‘Stay.’

It is not a request.

That should be enough for me to refuse on principle, except the strategic part of me knows he’s not wrong about the danger. If Tezra was baited because of me, if a PI was murdered and disguised as a natural death, if something ancient left a scent in that alley and made Valentin freeze, then walking out of this penthouse alone would be stupid.

I hate when he’s right almost as much as I hate wanting him to be.

He turns to leave.

The question comes out before I can stop it, sharp as a blade and twice as inevitable.

‘Answer me this before you go. Does any of this have anything to do with the mark on your chest?’

24

VALENTIN

I stop with my hand on the door.

Her question hangs in the room with the weight of a blade perfectly thrown, lodged exactly where I did not intend to be struck, and for a rare, unwelcome moment, I feel the shape of the decision before I make it.

A decision that instinct says I cannot delay much longer.

Not with two dead, an old scent in an alley where no such scent should be, and Eira Cross standing in my penthouse with my taste still on her, looking at me as if she already knows I have reached the edge of what I can conceal without making myself strategically useless.

I should lie by omission. Give her a polished half-truth and lock the rest behind the same doors that have kept empires intact and enemies starving.

But I still cannot lie, and I have taught her where my silences live.

If I continue like this, she will either pry the truth free in pieces or walk directly into danger without understanding what hunts alongside us.

Not knowing that one of my Five Blood brothers may have her in their crosshairs.

Neither outcome suits me.

So I turn.

She stands with arms folded, chin high, grief banked beneath anger while curiosity burns through both. There is still a faint flush on her skin from what happened on the sofa, which does not help my concentration in the slightest.

Silence stretches while I weigh the cost.

The worst that can happen is simple enough in theory.

I tell her what I choose then bind it to trust. If she betrays that trust, if this becomes vulnerability rather than asset, then I erase her memory.

I dislike the thought.

Memory alteration isn’t beneath me. It is a tool, and I have used uglier. But I dislike it because some part of me recoils at the idea of taking anything from her mind now, of forcing blankness where her sharpness lives.

I cross back towards her slowly, close enough to read the minute shifts in her expression. The way she braces for evasion and refuses to show it.