Page 60 of Hunted

Gods. He’s hunting shared spaces. Shared contacts. Hidden memories of Lyra. One act serving multiple purposes.

Feed. Scan. Winnow. Discard.

Cold settles into my bones. If this is what he does publicly, methodically, efficiently, I don’t want to imagine what he does privately.

‘I require blood to survive, little hunter,’ he continues. ‘If I may access memories simultaneously, it would be wasteful not to.’

‘Wasteful,’ I repeat. ‘You’re inviting women who look like her into your tower and treating them like searchable archives.’

His mouth curves faintly. ‘They leave compensated and uninjured.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘It is precisely the point.’

I step closer, furious at his composure. ‘You’re using them.’

‘And you would prefer I starve?’ he asks softly. ‘While scouring the city one human at a time without discretion?’

I open my mouth.

Close it.

Because the logic is infuriatingly sound, which makes me want to stab something tasteful and expensive.

‘You’re disgusted,’ he observes, something shifting in his eyes, halfway between mockery and ruthless curiosity.

‘Yes.’ The word sticks in my throat for reasons I refuse to examine.

‘And yet…’ His eyes lower briefly to my throat. ‘You are not untouched.’

Heat floods my face. ‘I’m reacting to the questionable spectacle of it all. Not to you.’

His smile deepens. ‘Of course.’

Before I can refute his mocking, Malachi returns.

My stomach clenches as my gaze lands on the man in tow.

Shit.

The Port Authority guy is older now, thinner-haired and radiating nervous energy. I wouldn’t have recognised him without the footage.

His gaze lands on me.

Lingers.

Something dangerously close to recognition flickers there, the tease of a memory he can’t quite trust.

My pulse stumbles.

Valentin moves so quickly the air cracks.

He’s in front of the man before the poor bastard fully processes it, one hand locked around his throat, lifting him just enough to assert dominance.

The jealousy rolling off him is unmistakable.

‘You’re not invited to stare at anyone but me,’ Valentin says softly, with such deadly intent the room seems to drop a dozen degrees.