Page 35 of Hunted

Unless the impossible occurred.

I force away old memories of blood. Carnage. Morrighan’s shriek as the Five Blood bound her and damned ourselves with the same act. Rub at the mark, though I know the gesture is useless, then huff with anger when my thoughts return to Eira.

Standing too far from me, calculating every step and breath. Tense and fearless.

And aroused.

That part had been unmistakable. Which makes this reaction all the more absurd.

These days, satisfaction comes only from blood, and only from enemies. I do not take women casually; do not fuck for distraction. Haven’t for years.

Every woman smells wrong to me now, their blood dull, their bodies empty of whatever my instincts crave.

Ever since that night.

The night I smelled Lyra Hannigan.

Regret surges sharp and bitter.

Lyra, pure and virginal, cowering in her bedroom, fear bright and honest in her eyes.

And her scent.

Sweet hellfires of Netheris.

First blood and midnight breath. Innocence on the edge of surrender. Crushed jasmine steeped in warm sugar and salt. A decadent sweetness threaded with hunger, the kind that clings to the senses and makes eternity feel unbearable without it.

A scent that promised ruin and home in the same aching inhale.

I should have claimed her then. Bound her completely before her terror had the chance to take root. Instead, I mistook restraint for control. Told myself time would make the taking sweeter.

Arrogance.

I lent freedom to a house that should have been sealed. Believed Declan Hannigan sufficiently terrorised. By the time I learned the fool had returned to his vices, throwing my name around to buy favours he hadn’t earned, the gambling idiot had gotten himself killed.

And Lyra was long gone.

The mark flares hotter in response to the spike of emotion.

Straightening, I cross to the Heartshard Glass dominating one wall. The surface shimmers at my approach.

I expand my chest fully and turn, watching the rune’s edges creep outward, thin filaments stretching towards my ribs. Soon it will reach my back. Then no part of me will be untouched by it.

And then you will be no more.

I grit my teeth as her shrill voice reverberates deep in my mind.

The Crimson Mother.

Morrighan.

The Gods-spawned vampire who created me and my blood brothers; whose origins are shrouded in secrecy and blood.

‘I will find her,’ I murmur, the words a lethal vow. ‘If only so I can ensure you continue to burn in the Hell pits of Netheris.’

The mirror pulses once in response. Then stills.

My phone rings.