Page 24 of Hunted

Let him see Eira Cross, Tier Seven bounty hunter, not Lyra Hannigan, eighteen and shaking beneath the weight of a claim she never agreed to. He never saw my face properly that night. That’s the one mercy I have, the one fragile advantage I can’t afford to waste, especially now that I’m standing in his glass tower with nowhere to hide and the full force of his attention moving over me like a blade.

Because Gods, he’s real.

For six years, Valentin Moretti has existed in rumour and nightmare, impossible to find in photographs because vampires fracture and distort through modern lenses.

Now he stands in front of me, not the half-formed terror of a girl’s bedroom, but flesh and power and lethal, devastating beauty.

Immaculately dressed in black that looks cut for violence rather than fashion. His stillness has weight that belongs to a creature who knows exactly how fast he can kill and has no need to prove it. His face is sharper than I remember, all controlled arrogance and cruel sensuality, dark hair precisely cut, pale eyes bright enough to look metallic in the dying light, his mouth built for command, punishment and the sort of carnal devastation I rarely allow myself to acknowledge but can’t hide from now.

He’s beautiful. Potent. Sexually lethal in a way that makes heat curl low in my belly before my mind can crush it, and that betrayal infuriates me as much as the fact that part of me remembers his voice near my bed, his fingers in my hair, the way the air changed when he inhaled near my throat and decided I was his.

I drag my gaze away before it lingers long enough to damn me, letting him think I’m assessing exits, weapons and angles, which I am, just not only that.

The irony of ironies tickles me before I smash it away, but yeah, this is a new one.

I’m a bounty hunter being hired to hunt… myself. By a vampire who claimed me with the carelessness of a roulette chip he won at a betting table. With every fibre of my being I want to probe why he’s looking for Lyra. For me.

But his eyes are on me, precise and assessing, and every instinct I own tells me one wrong question, one visible tremor, one betraying rush of blood could unravel six years of running. So I keep breathing. Keep my posture loose and my expression professional.

The potion holds. My heart, by some miracle, doesn’t claw its way out of my chest. And if Valentin Moretti senses anything beneath the woman standing in front of him, anything familiar or female or fated, he gives me nothing but that cold, watchful silence.

I break the silence before it becomes a weapon. ‘Five million?’ I echo. ‘That’s more than ten times the agency’s going rate.’

‘Which should demonstrate just how little interest I have in negotiation or delays.’

‘Or how badly you hate being told no.’

His gaze tightens.

‘It’s also a whole load of shiny but wasted dollars if I come up empty,’ I add.

‘You won’t.’

‘That sounded dangerously close to confidence in my abilities. I’m touched.’

‘It was confidence in my selection process.’

‘Ah. There he is.’

One dark brow lifts. ‘You disapprove?’

‘I’m deciding whether to be flattered or offended.’

‘Choose quickly. I have limited patience for theatrical uncertainty.’

‘That must make mirrors awkward for you.’

Something flickers in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or warning. With creatures like Valentin Moretti, the line between the two is probably written in blood and revised hourly.

I stay where I am, keeping the door in my peripheral vision, my body loose, my heartbeat steady. The price has been named. The parameters set. Ten million reasons to remain in this room instead of walking out and vanishing again.

Or trying to.

Because he doesn’t want a hunter. Not really. He wants compliance wrapped in professionalism. He wants me to feel the imbalance, taste the power, step forward out of greed or defiance and convince myself either one was my choice.

I don’t move.

Outside the window, the last of the sun bleeds behind the skyline.