Page 125 of Hunt Me

He dug until the grave was finally deep enough, and when he was done, he stood there, staring into the grave as if it were the abyss. It was the place he’d bury her and prayed she would rise again.

Luka’s chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. He dropped to his knees and pressed a palm to the earth, grounding himself.

“Forgive me. Forgive me for needing you enough to do this,” he said, voice barely audible over the whipping wind and the roaring of blood in his ears.

He pulled a small blade from his belt, admiring the moonlight glinting against steel. His hand trembled before he forced it still and pressed the edge to his skin. The flesh split, and blood trickled from his palm into the earth. He released a shaky exhale, and the soil drank his blood instantly, as if it were dying of thirst and begging for more.

He continued cutting down his palm, wrist, and arm until the blood flowed profusely. His knees weakened, but he remained upright.

“You must complete the ritual, my King,” Ezra whispered from above.

Luka closed his eyes and began the chant of archaic words that predated him and his predecessors to the beginning of his kind’s creation. The words were sacred and were only used for turning, binding, and calling a soul back from the realm of no return.

His voice was rough and broken as the words effortlessly tumbled from his cracked lips.

“Blood to bind. Blood to call. Life to life, though darkness falls. Let death be brief, let love be strong. Return to me where you belong.”

The air shifted, and the wind stilled. The earth seemed to hum beneath him, as if answering his call. He continued, voice trembling but unwavering.

“By my vein, by my vow, I give what I am. Matilda Seraphina Alesi, rise when the night calls your name.”

His breath shuddered, vision blurring at the edges. He felt a bond forming in his chest—a thread pulled taut across fate itself.

“Come back to me, please,” he whispered, lowering himself to the dirt. His lips pressed against the soil until he collapsed from blood loss and exhaustion.

The grave was fortified and protected. All he needed was her.

***

Hours passed before Luka finally roused. His body felt drained like sand slipping through an hourglass. He hoisted himself out of the grave, tugged on his clothes, and ventured back to the castle.

His pulse quickened when his ears picked up whimpering and grunts from his beloved.

He sprinted down the corridor, boots striking stone. His feet quickened when he heard her breathing. It was uneven and urgent. Another sound reached him—a sharp inhale, followed by a soft cry she tried to swallow. His chest tightened, and the corridor to their chamber felt impossibly long.

He reached the door and flung it open.

The room was dim, lit only by a few flickering candles. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of sweat and fear. Matilda paced with one hand braced against the wall, the other cupped beneath her belly as if to steady the child inside. Her head was bowed, curls falling around her face in damp strands.

It was time.

Time to welcome life, and time to usher death.

***

“This… this is witchcraft,” Matilda complained to Dr. Blackwood as she supported her belly with her hands and paced the room.

“It is biology.”

“Witchcraft,” she hissed, closing her eyes and breathing through the contraction.

“Biology.”

“I swear to the gods if you say biology one more time—what am I saying? The gods will not hear me. Clearly, they have forsaken me. Look who is the sire of my child.”

“That was a choice,” Dr. Blackwood commented as he prepped for delivery.

Matilda rolled her eyes.