Fen. The wolf-shifter who saves my life, cooks in my kitchen, disrupts my missions, and makes my skin buzz like I've stuck my finger in an electrical socket. The magickal being I should be hunting but instead find myself thinking about at completely inappropriate moments.
Like now, when the memory of his fingertips on my face sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the morning chill.
Something dark flickers between buildings. Just a glimpse of what might be our target. "Movement at your two o'clock, Mendez," I say, forcing my attention back to the mission. "Sutter, circle around to cut off escape routes."
Through my enhanced vision, I catch another fleeting image of what we're hunting. It's canine in shape, but something about it feels wrong. Its movements are too purposeful, too deliberate for a rabid animal. The creature moves like liquid shadow, flowing rather than running, its paws never quite seeming to touch the ground. And there's something about its eyes…
They. Are. Red.
Glowing like embers in the fog. Not reflecting light like an animal's eyes should, but generating it, pulsing with an internal fire that seems to burn from somewhere beyond this world.
What the actual fuck…
"I've got nothing," Mendez reports, frustration evident in her voice. "It's like they're ghosts."
"Or invisible," Sutter adds. "Ma'am, is it possible we're dealing with something... you know... weird?"
I roll my eyes. "Define 'weird,' Agent Sutter."
"Like... not normal dogs?" His voice drops to a whisper, as if saying it any louder might summon something. "Maybe something... you know... magickal?"
"All possibilities remain open," I answer diplomatically. "Continue your sweep."
The truth is, these creatures move too quickly, appear and disappear too easily. And the rookies can even see them right in front of them, while I see them even from a distance. Another reminder of the cursed gift I hide from everyone, the magickal enhancements that make me both an excellent hunter and would-be-hunted.
A slight shift in air pressure behind me is my only warning. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a primal recognition that comes before conscious thought.
I whirl, weapon drawn, to find Fen standing there—all six-plus feet of him, dressed in dark slacks and a fitted black button-up shirt that does nothing to hide the muscled frame beneath. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off powerful forearms corded with veins and tendons that make my mouth water. His golden-brown hair is pulled back in a half-knot, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face and those impossible eyes that seem to see straight through me—like pools of molten amber backlit by sunlight.
"Good morning," he says casually, as if appearing on rooftops in business casual is perfectly normal behavior. His voice carries that hint of ancient accent that I can't quite place, something old-world and wild wrapped in modern cadence.
I press a button to mute the comm in my ear. "Fucking hell," I hiss, lowering my weapon but not holstering it. My heart hammers against my ribs, both from surprise and something else I refuse to name. "Do you have a death wish?"
"You wouldn't shoot me," he replies with infuriating confidence, his mouth curving into a smile that does ridiculous things to my insides. "Your aim is too good to miss if you truly wanted me dead."
I turn back to my surveillance position, ignoring the way my pulse has accelerated and the soft hum beneath my skin has turned into an all-over-body buzz that feels like champagne bubbles dancing in my veins. "What are you doing here?"
He crouches beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the now-familiar scent of earth and pine and something wild, like winter forests after a thunderstorm, primordial and electric. "Hunting."
"Hunting what? The rabid dogs we came for today? You going to try to save them too?" The sarcasm drips from my voice, a defensive mechanism against the way his proximity makes my breath catch.
"Is that what GUIDE calls hellhounds?" Amusement colors his tone. "Rabid dogs." His lips twist with something like mockery, but his eyes remain warm, as if sharing a private joke rather than insulting me.
I snap my head toward him. "What did you call them?"
"Hellhounds." He gestures toward the complex below, his movements fluid and graceful. His eyes meet mine, the gold in them seeming to swirl and deepen. "You see them more clearly than your team, don't you?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm not ready to address. A direct challenge to the carefully constructed lie that is my entire life. Instead, I deflect. "They're rabid dogs."
"Astrid." My name in his mouth sounds like a caress, rolling off his tongue like honey, sweet and slow and tempting. "We both know that's not true."
A flash of movement below saves me from responding. Through my binoculars, I track one of the creatures as it stalks silently behind Sutter. The animal is massive, easily the size of a Great Dane but leaner, with a coat so black it seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. Its eyes glow like hot coals in a face that's more skull than flesh, lips pulled back from teeth too long and sharp to belong to any natural predator.
I press the button on my shoulder. "Sutter, behind you!" I bark into my comm. "Target approaching your six!"
Sutter spins, raising his weapon, but his confused expression tells me he sees nothing. "I don't—wait—" He fires wildly at a shadow that seems to melt away before the bullets can connect, the reports of his weapon echoing off concrete and metal like thunder trapped in a canyon.
"Fuck!" His curse echoes through the empty complex.
