Page 51 of Hunted

‘And Malachi.’

He pauses.

‘You have not inquired as to why I seek Lyra. Do not let your interest be roused now. You will be apprised only when I deem it appropriate.’

The command is quiet.

Absolute.

He bows deeper this time and leaves without another word.

Alone, I turn towards the darkened city and allow myself one final, private admission.

The hunter unsettles my guard.

And if I am not careful, she will do far more than that.

10

EIRA

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

Understatement.

My awareness of him is so insanely maxed out, I can’t see the needle any more. The silence beneath his tower is too curated, too insulated, as though even the walls are trained to keep secrets, and the knowledge that he’s somewhere above me, close enough that concrete and steel are the only things separating us, refuses to become manageable.

It’s absurd to think he might feel the rhythm of my pulse through floors and beams.

Unfortunately, my brain has never let absurdity stop a perfectly good spiral.

I pace the length of the stupidly plush suite, vaguely dismayed that I’m too rattled to check out the amenities, the kind I’d be stuffing into my pockets if this were a five-star hotel and not a gilded holding cell owned by a vampire with boundary issues and a God complex.

I snort under my breath, then replay the final moment of our evening with the ruthless precision that has kept me alive for years.

The intrusion.

The pressure.

The way my internal defences shifted beneath his touch.

Memory fortification is too blunt a phrase for what I’ve built inside my own skull. Selphine once called it a cathedral of partitions. The Agency preferred defensive discipline. I call it the difference between autonomy and annihilation.

And he brushed right up against it like he was testing a fence.

He didn’t smash through. Didn’t even attempt brute force. But I felt him assess the integrity, measure the strength of walls I’ve spent half a decade refining, and the fact that he did it with such casual restraint somehow makes it worse.

I stop pacing and press my fingertips to my temples, breathing slowly as I scan for any foreign presence. Residual sigils. Psychic spoor. Some arcane little fingerprint tucked into the seams of my consciousness because apparently my life was missing a final sprinkle of nightmare seasoning.

The urge to call Selphine burns sharp and immediate.

She would know whether such a thing is possible. But… she would also remind me, in tones edged with acid and ancient contempt, that offering a vampire sanctioned access to your mind is the intellectual equivalent of handing a loaded weapon to someone who has already proven he knows how to use it.

You dared him, she would say. And then you were surprised when he accepted.

My jaw tightens.

It was supposed to be a calculated risk. A show of confidence. I never believed he would actually take it. And when he did, he didn’t batter through my defences like a monster drunk on power. He was controlled. Surgical. Careful enough to make it worse.