Page 82 of Hunted

A punch of bewildering disappointment lances through me before I kill it dead.

‘You are beautiful,’ he says, the truth sounding as if it costs him. ‘Infuriatingly breathtaking.’

My throat tightens.

‘And you smell,’ he continues, each syllable clipped with precision, ‘like an invitation I did not request.’

Snark tries to claw up through the panic and fails.

He steps closer, and my skin prickles in anticipation even as my brain screams.

‘I can smell your essence,’ he says, eyes narrowing as if some part of me is offending his senses. ‘And yet you still smell… wrong.’

My pulse skitters.

‘What are you hiding, little hunter?’

The question is quiet. Intimate. Terrifying.

I yank at my arms, fury flaring. I try to force my legs closed and fail. I push every ounce of training and will through my body like electricity, battering the invisible restraints.

Nothing happens.

Then— One finger moves. It’s tiny. Almost nothing. But it shouts in my nerves.

Hope punches through the panic so hard it hurts.

I move another finger. Then my hand. A trembling, stubborn inch. My breath comes sharper because I’m doing it. I’m breaking through. I don’t know how or why, but I’m doing it.

His eyes widen a fraction, the only crack in his composure.

Good.

I force my wrist down. Force my other arm to follow, every muscle burning as if I’m pushing through deep water. My knees tremble, and I drag my legs back together by sheer spite.

The pressure resists. Then yields. Sound rushes back. Air thins. Gravity returns to impartial.

Valentin inhales sharply.

The surprise on his face is real enough to satisfy something petty in me even as I sway, limbs unsteady, body reacting to the release like it’s recovering from a fall.

‘Extraordinary,’ he mutters, his voice hoarse with reluctant admiration. ‘Brava, little hunter. Not even centuries-old creatures are capable of releasing themselves from a feeding thrall.’

‘Fuck. You.’ Another unladylike wheeze.

His mouth tics.

Then, without warning, the rest of his hold dissolves.

I stumble.

For one ugly second, I think he’ll let me hit the floor and watch me crawl through the glass.

He doesn’t.

He catches me with inhuman speed, one arm bracing my waist, the other hand coming up to my face. More rough than gentle. His fingers span my jaw as if he’s already memorised the shape.

He tilts my face up, forcing my eyes to his.