Page 22 of Hunted

She absorbs that without comment, then subtly repositions herself so the door remains in her peripheral vision.

I begin to circle the room, unhurried, with a step here, a slight pivot there.

A predator does not announce pursuit. But more than that, I am testing her.

With casual intent, I relocate my glass from desk to liquor cabinet, watching her track me without turning her back, adjusting with quiet efficiency.

She has mastered evasion without fleeing.

An impressive skill.

‘Why are you avoiding me?’ I ask bluntly.

‘I don’t like being stalked. Or… monitored.’ She shrugs. ‘Or the many things we both know you’re doing. Hell, I have a dirty laundry list of my dislikes but I won’t bore you with it.’

‘Hmm. So if I crossed the room right now to shake your hand, as civility dictates, you would do… what, exactly?’

‘Probably punch you in the face,’ she returns dryly, although her eyes blaze with a lethal warning. ‘Top of my list is a serious aversion to being touched.’

That stops me.

Interest flares, sharp and unwelcome.

I catalogue it, then dismiss it as a side effect of the rune pulsing beneath my shirt, the restlessness that has plagued me of late.

I am not ruled by impulse. I don’t react to proximity.

And yet.

I look at her again, more carefully this time. The clean lines of her jaw. The controlled set of her overly plump blood-red mouth. The way she holds herself as if contact is a choice she intends to deny at all cost.

‘Noted,’ I say.

Her breathing remains steady for longer this time, as if now that we have established boundaries, she is giving herself permission to lower her guard by a fraction.

Foolish girl.

In another time, another place, I would snatch at the throat covered by that insubstantial collar, lick the pulse I can see throbbing with a persistent whoosh whoosh whoosh, and take singular, if brief, interest in watching those glaring eyes glaze with⁠—

Enough.

I move back to my desk and brace my hands against it, reasserting the order of things with deliberate ease.

Purpose sharpens everything else.

Except what is happening now is the greatest inconvenience I have ever faced. And it demands immediate resolution.

‘Whatever led you to believe you could refuse me,’ I say, infusing lethal steel in my tone. ‘That ends today.’

Her lips part as if to argue, then close. She studies me with renewed focus.

‘You were told I’m in need of your services but not given the details, correct?’

An abrupt nod, her eyes fixed squarely on mine.

Again, I force away the sting of intrigue her boldness births. The shimmer of heat it drizzles through a body that has known more coldness than most people can bear in ten lifetimes.

‘I’m searching for someone,’ I continue. ‘A woman who vanished six years ago. Her name is Lyra Hannigan.’