Page 40 of Hunted

The knot in my stomach expands as I’m led up black marble stairs and through a dark corridor. I sense eyes on me but look neither left nor right. My temper, and a few other unfortunate emotions, are hanging by a thread.

And I absolutely cannot risk spilling blood in Valentin’s presence.

The VIP space is quieter, darker, carved out of the club like a private throne room. Valentin lounges on a black leather banquette as if discomfort has never touched him.

His gaze tracks me the second I enter, a grappling hook made of icy menace.

‘You’ve been busy, Miss Cross,’ he says when I stop at a safe distance.

And maybe it’s my overactive imagination, but I swear he’s scenting me.

Again.

I force myself to keep breathing. ‘Yes, because I have a job.’

‘You have my job.’ His voice sounds like a cello played in a tomb. Haunting. Mesmerising, if you’re careless enough to let it be. ‘And yet your busyness has had very little to do with what I require of you.’

I smile without warmth. ‘Funny. My contract doesn’t mention absolute ownership.’

His eyes gleam as the hostess approaches with a sterling silver tray and a glass half-filled with red wine. I start to shake my head.

‘You should try it. It’s galaxies better than the swill you usually enjoy from the bodega near your agency.’

I freeze.

He’s baiting me. Taunting me with his knowledge of Eira Cross’s life. But that life is lived with meticulous care. He knows nothing.

I pluck the wine from the tray and don’t take my eyes off him as the hostess melts into the blackness.

Only then do I notice the massive shadows within it.

Shit.

Six members of the Black Twelve stand arranged with deliberate spacing, dark eyes tracking everything, posture relaxed but coiled, each one waiting for the slightest excuse to demonstrate exactly how permanent loyalty can be.

‘You’ve also been asking questions about me,’ Valentin says.

The words detonate inside my chest. I twirl the stem of the glass between my fingers. ‘Due diligence.’

‘Is that what you call it?’

‘It’s what professionals do. You’ve clearly been doing the same.’

He rises with smooth, unhurried grace, and something cold shifts in the air, restraint slipping loose just enough for the room to notice.

Without looking away from me, he lifts his phone and dials. The ring pulses through the speaker until a familiar voice answers, tight with nerves.

Victor Hale.

Valentin wastes no breath on greeting. ‘She is permanently assigned to my case,’ he says, calm enough to be almost polite. ‘Until it is resolved.’

Hale stammers, trying to find footing. ‘Don Moretti⁠—’

‘She will be moved into the condominium beneath mine,’ Valentin continues, as if he’s discussing weather rather than detonating my life. ‘Immediately.’

My blood turns to ice.

I step forward before I can stop myself. ‘Absolutely not.’