Page 69 of Hunted

His expression goes stone.

I step past him but he moves just enough to block me.

‘Your insolence is infuriating,’ he says slowly. ‘And yet curiously intoxicating. I almost understand why the Master tolerates you. Personally, I would’ve snapped your beautiful neck by now and assigned a Tier Ten to finish your work.’

‘Wow,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Compliments, insults and death threats. I don’t know whether to blush or piss myself with terror. I think I’ll settle for a sandwich. You buying?’

‘No,’ he says with Arctic-cold menace.

‘Shame. You just lost yourself a true fan.’

He bares his fangs deliberately.

I laugh under my breath. ‘Nice gnashers. Bet the girls swoon.’

‘One day,’ he says softly, ‘that sass will get you drained dry. I’ll bring popcorn.’

‘You’re probably right,’ I reply cheerfully. ‘But that day is not today. Toodles.’ I give him a cutesy finger wave.

His eyes burn deeper red as I walk away.

I feel his rage on my back like heat from an open furnace, but I don’t break stride. Not until I hit the street and get five blocks between me and the Tower.

Then I allow myself one breath.

Only one.

For the first time in half a day, I’m alone. No ancient predator tracking my pulse through a psychic tether he pretends not to use. No fang-banging women before breakfast while the Black Twelve watch from the sidelines.

Just brick and concrete. Clogged air. Grease and burnt pretzels. Normal New York filth.

I lean against the cool wall of a service alley and close my eyes for exactly three seconds.

Valentin is not going to stop.

That truth settles into me with geological weight. Worse, not even his Twelve know why he’s hunting Lyra.

Hunting me.

Malachi’s hesitation wasn’t subtle. His irritation wasn’t just about me. They’re loyal and disciplined, but they’re operating in the dark.

Whatever is driving Valentin Moretti, he’s keeping it to himself.

I push off the wall.

If the most powerful vampire in the world and his elite guard are flying blind, I have a head start.

I cut down an alley marked by a flickering security light and pull my burner phone from my pocket.

Three seconds later, the air ripples.

My favourite supernatural taxi driver steps out of the distortion with an exaggerated bow, coat swirling around him like smoke. ‘Hey, Miss Cross. You good?’ Tezra asks with theatrical warmth.

My first genuine smile in what feels like forever doesn’t lighten the stone in my gut. ‘Hey, Tezra. Thanks for coming. You up for a couple of express runs?’

His brows lift.

He knows what that means.