Page 49 of Hunted

Her pulse spikes. Then she pushes back.

I glance down. Her eyes are shut, lips pressed tight, breathing controlled.

Interesting.

I press a fraction harder and her response is immediate and trained. Internal gates tighten. Focus reroutes. She does not shove me out.

She contains me.

Someone with considerable skill has taught her how to safeguard her mind from probing.

Impressive.

She would not last more than a minute under the pressure I could apply, but it is still noteworthy.

I withdraw with measured restraint. And Eira immediately shoves my chest, not hard enough to move me, but enough to make her displeasure unmistakable.

‘Satisfied?’ Her eyes flash. ‘And what the fuck were you doing?’

I raise a taunting brow. ‘What do you mean, little hunter?’

‘Don’t pretend you didn’t try to breach my walls. To go where you damn sure aren’t supposed to.’

‘I assessed,’ I correct mildly.

Her jaw tightens. ‘No. You fucking pushed.’ She lets out a sharp breath. ‘You try that again without permission, and I will make you regret it.’

A lesser creature would laugh.

I do not.

I lean in just enough for my voice to drop between us. ‘You believe you can stop me?’

‘I believe,’ she says evenly, though her fingers curl slightly, ‘that if you ever try to tear through my mind without consent, I will not just stop you. I will end you.’

Bold.

I study her face, searching for the tremor beneath the threat.

There is none.

‘You misunderstand the scale between us,’ I tell her quietly. ‘If I chose to break your mind, Miss Cross, it would take seconds. You would not even understand what was happening until you were kneeling.’

Her spine stiffens, but her eyes do not waver. ‘Then it’s fortunate for both of us that I’m currently useful,’ she replies coolly. ‘Because neither of us gets to find out just how bad I am at kneeling.’

Useful.

I let the silence stretch, fighting the irrational fury that a human hunter uncovered more in seven days than I have in six relentless years of resources, spies and blood spilled in Lyra’s name.

The humiliation is surgical.

Not because she has outmatched me. Because I allowed myself to believe force would find Lyra when perhaps I should have understood from the beginning that she would require something far more delicate to reclaim.

‘Are we done here? I need to follow it up.’

‘No.’

Her eyes sharpen. ‘Excuse me?’