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As it was, it hurt like a thousand sons of bitches and would leave one heck of a shiner. My vision tilted as I temporarily lost sight—hopefully—white-hot pain throbbing in the center of my face. Pain, I could handle.

I scrambled back, jumping onto my feet and lifting my hand to fire off a round into its heart—it wouldn’t kill it, but it would disable it long enough for me to burn it. It rushed forward in a blur, hitting me with the power of a semi-truck, sending me flying.

My lungs seized as I soared through the air, the oxygen sucked out of me from the impact of a tree I sailed into, crumpling at the base of it, every one of my bones screaming in agony.

I definitely broke something. If I were lucky, a rib. But more than likely, my back. Something vital. The pain was so all-encompassing that I couldn’t see for a handful of seconds, my mouth desperately sucking for air when none would come into my lungs.

I knew that I had seconds, maybe, before the wight came upon me and finished the job. It’d either swallow my soul, or worse, infect me to become one of them—a slow, horrifying transition that I couldn’t even stop if I ate a bullet. My demise was bitter and acidic, terror clogging my throat. I didn’t have time for that bullshit, but I couldn’t make my body move, couldn’t gulp in a full breath, couldn’t see anything but blurry images.

Real panic hit me then. I was actually going to die. A few hundred yards from my childhood home, where my parents had perished, where I’d sworn I’d avenge them. Where I’d vowed to never be powerless again.

I reminded myself that I was not afraid, I’d long since lost my fear of death. I was angry. Fucking furious. This was going to be it? Without accomplishing the one thing I needed to? Without getting my revenge? To a fucking forest wight? No hunters would tell stories of my death. I wouldn’t be a legend. I’d be a laughingstock, if anyone even spoke about me at all.

I waited for the crunch of leaves underneath bony feet, the rancid smell of decomposing breath, the swipe of claws, indescribable pain. I’d assumed getting your soul eaten hurt, but maybe mine was so blackened and warped I’d barely even notice.

Nothing came. There was a low pop then a louder thump.

I pressed my back against the tree, finally able to suck in a wet, agonizing breath that felt like inhaling shards of glass. Although difficult and it hurt like a bitch, I hungrily gulped in more air, forcing the details of the forest back into my vision.

A set of boots came into my line of sight. Black. Worn leather. Runes etched into the sides. The heel was caked in blood, a spur glinting against the soft glow from the houses. Not ornamental, a rowel sharp enough to cut through any monster since it was pure silver.

You had to be fucking kidding me.

Not only did that have to be my most embarrassing run-in with a monster since I was eighteen and tried to stake a vampire, but it was in front of the most infuriating, insolent asshole to ever walk the earth.

“You taking a nap?” His voice was deep, rumbling and teasing but with an edge that I heard even through the screaming aches in my limbs.

I scowled up at Dante, standing above me. Looming like a dark angel. Like a devil. He wished he were that cool.

“Fuck you,” I rasped, my voice thin.

“Maybe,” he drawled. “But I’ve got a thing about fucking women who may or may not be dying from crushed organs.” His tone was light, teasing, but it didn’t land all the way. He was masking real worry. That meant I must’ve looked bad. As a rule, hunters didn’t panic over injuries, even mortal ones. Part of the game.

The slight tightness to Dante’s tone had me worried.

“Let’s get you up and assess the damage.” He reached down with a large, tattooed palm. He was a walking ward, symbols and various protection spells inked into his skin, likely from witches he’d conned into helping him. How he hadn’t been cursed by them instead was anyone’s guess.

I shoved his outstretched hand away, struggling upward then gently rubbing my chest. That would bruise. The agony in my side told me of at least one broken rib. Which was unthinkable. I shouldn’t have a broken rib. My fucking chest should’ve caved in. A strike from a wight, an older one at that, would’ve killed me in an instant. The bullet to the shoulder must’ve weakened it more than I’d thought.

Thank fuck.

How embarrassing would it have been if I’d been killed by some rogue wight? As I said, they weren’t native to the U.S., but in Europe, they were run-of-the-mill monsters that hunters cut their teeth on in the early years. Only baby hunters or overconfident, conceited assholes like Dante were killed by forest wights. They were strong, gross, and very deadly, but pretty easy to bring down. Silver bullet to the heart. After that, it was a bit stickier. You had to find the heart root, separate it from the creature itself, doing it somewhere close to the woods they lurked in. It had to be consecrated with rosemary, sage, and salt before it was burned. More admin than anything, but nothing a good hunter couldn’t handle.

Yet I’d run out there with nothing but a handgun because I was, what? Overly confident? Suicidal? I was so desperate to kill the monster that killed my parents and get the fuck out of there, I’d almost gotten myself in the grave beside them.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I demanded, hand still on my chest, scowl directed at Dante.

“Thank you is favored when someone saves your life.” He cracked his knuckles, sounding as smug as ever.

“You didn’t save my life,” I spat. “I had it.”

Though it wasn’t light enough to see the intricacies of his features, I knew that Dante was smirking sardonically. “You had it?” he scoffed. “You almost got your chest caved in and are only armed with a handgun. Come to think of it.” He stepped forward, a strange expression on his face. A pinch in his features that I couldn’t pinpoint. I was used to stuck-up, sarcastic smirks, infuriating mannerisms. This looked almost … worried. But Dante didn’t worry about anything, except maybe the results of his latest STD test.

I was so confused by the look on his face that I let him in my bubble, let his hand gingerly, tenderly open my shirt to reveal the already purple-bluish bruising on my chest. The crease in his face deepened.

Then I found my sense and smacked his hand away, wincing from the ache that came from the force of that movement.

Dante didn’t let me retreat.