Page 46 of Hunted

Which is as close to unnerving me as anything has come in half a millennium.

The sound still coils through my mind as I lead her into the Tower, through corridors of black stone and muted gold, past doors that conceal the machinery of my empire and the reverent attention of those who serve me.

Her racing pulse should be the only thing I notice.

Instead, I notice the set of her shoulders. The way she keeps her spine straight after being reminded how small she is compared to the sky.

I notice, too, how thin my restraint has become.

The Crimson Mother’s work. She did not simply curse. She corroded. Entrenched impossible hungers inside the blood and called them fate.

But Lyra Hannigan is the fated mate who will make me whole.

The thought is blade and balm.

Six years of absence. Six years of wrong blood. Still, the certainty grows sharper with every passing day.

I force my attention back to the hunter walking beside me. To the stranger who should mean nothing yet riles me with every breath.

And I make my voice colder. ‘You will stay here.’

She slows as we reach the private corridor leading to the residences carved into the heart of the Tower.

Her gaze flicks to me. Watchful. Assessing.

‘I didn’t realise you handled relocation personally,’ she says, with less bite than before. ‘Don’t you have a butler for this? Or one of your Black Twelve?’

I stop.

Irritation comes fast and sharp. ‘You know of them.’

Her mouth curves, faint and unreadable. ‘Everyone who values their skin knows of your personal guard.’

Not true.

Not everyone knows of the highly skilled, carefully chosen vampires who have served me for centuries. Especially not with that casual certainty.

She has been asking questions. Investigating me instead of Lyra Hannigan.

Heat flares in my chest, and for a moment I am back on the rooftop, fingers at her throat, control slipping into something more primitive.

‘What did you have to report?’ I bark.

She blinks. ‘What?’

‘You tried to save yourself from certain and gruesome death by claiming you had information for me.’

Her eyes narrow. ‘It’s not a claim if it’s the truth.’ Her tone sharpens, the old edge returning. ‘And if you’re going to question everything I bring you to death, you’ll really be wasting both our time.’

I stop walking.

The urge to glare is immediate, visceral, absurd.

I look at her mouth instead, because it is easier than looking into the strange flare of interest her defiance provokes.

Blood-red.

Full.