Page 147 of Hunted

If he can smell me, so can Navarro.

‘If he looks at you wrong, I will tear out his throat,’ he rasps.

Pure carnage.

My heart shadowboxes my ribs when he reluctantly releases me.

I hate that it’s reluctant, hate that I love it.

I smooth my hands down my arms, pretending composure while my insides jump with giddy, reckless satisfaction.

This, being wanted like this, being watched like this, living on the edge of danger and somehow feeling a cushion beneath me, is intoxicating.

Worse, it fills something hollow.

I have not felt this wanted since my mother died and my father threw me away. Since I reinvented myself and dared the world to destroy me.

The thought is both soft and sharp, and for one heartbeat I almost break. Then I swallow it down, because falling apart is a luxury I do not have.

I look up at Valentin and, because I am apparently incapable of self-preservation, whisper, ‘I’ll happily pick up where we left off later, if you want.’

His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, and his smile is pure arrogance edged with hunger. ‘You will,’ he says. ‘And you will not make me wait.’

We step out, and the Twelve close in to flank us like lethal shadows. Malachi is half a step behind Valentin, rigid with controlled displeasure. Aaron’s gaze flicks to me once, unreadable.

I ignore both because Valentin is staring again. ‘You’re staring,’ I mutter. ‘It’s rude.’

He licks his lips brazenly, silver-rimmed eyes not moving an inch. ‘You’re beautiful. I find I’m enraptured.’

The flash of surprise on Malachi’s face tells me he is not used to his sire speaking so overtly.

I slot that away, disarmed and annoyingly gleeful.

Too soon, we’re back in the lobby.

Rafael Navarro stands dead centre of Valentin’s Tower insignia, the marbled black crest etched with a stylised eclipse pierced by five descending blades.

It’s a deliberate taunt.

He’s flanked by four of his Seven – his version of The Twelve, all Chicago sharpness and coiled swagger. Clad in head-to-toe leather, he’s taller than I expected, built like trouble, smile lazy and dangerous, eyes bright with amusement that doesn’t reach the cold underneath.

Where the King of New York boils like a deadly volcano, the Don of Chicago is flashy magma raining down after eruption.

Both terrifying.

In their own special, murder-y way.

His dark brown, gold-rimmed gaze lands on Valentin first.

Then slides to me.

Stays.

The air changes.

Valentin’s hand comes to my waist with possessive certainty, his body subtly angling between me and his blood brother and growling mine without a word.

Rafe’s smile widens.