Page 100 of Hunted

‘No, little hunter,’ he says, each word controlled so tightly it sounds dangerous, ‘I do not.’

My pulse jumps hard enough to annoy me. ‘You do realise I don’t belong to you, right?’

For a sliver of a heartbeat, he is still by the windows.

Then he is in front of me. Another fraction, and I’m propelled back into the wall with a startled breath, shoulders hitting smooth stone, his body caging mine without crushing me. One forearm braces beside my head, the other hand flattening near my hip.

Apparently this is his favourite place to pin women.

My brain should be ashamed that I like it.

His face is inches from mine. Silver burning and jaw clenched. ‘How many questions do you require this morning?’ he asks, voice low and lethal.

I open my mouth to demand what the fuck he’s talking about, to inform him in clear language that ambushing me against architecture before caffeine is a war crime.

Then I feel it.

Him.

Oh.

My.

Gods.

He’s hard.

Insanely hard, his cock a steel rod pressed against my belly through layers of clothing, relentless and impossible to misread. Every coherent thought evacuates my head in a screaming rush.

Someone needs to remind him of his fated mate.

Someone who definitely does not want to break her virginity all over the shaft digging unrelentingly into her stomach.

Someone who⁠—

‘Answer me, little hunter,’ he says, the restraint in his voice somehow worse than wildness. ‘Or I will take the kiss regardless.’

My gaze drops, traitorous, to that devilishly sinful mouth. His jaw clenches and releases as if he is barely holding himself in place.

‘Five,’ I blurt, because apparently my brain has selected a random number as coping strategy.

His eyes narrow.

I drag in a breath and force words past my pulse.

‘Five questions. You owe me five if you’re going to pin me to walls before breakfast.’

My voice comes out huskier than I want. I hate that he hears it. Hate more that his eyes flash in immediate response.

Then, because I have learned at least one thing this week and would like to live long enough to regret all of it, I add, ‘And no fangs.’

Valentin

The words are barely out of her mouth before I move.

No thought, no discipline honed through centuries of war and blood-feuds. Only instinct I reserve for threats and hunger.

And what infuriates me most is that I cannot tell which one she is.