Page 56 of Hunted

I force breath into order, control back into place and the echo of her touch from my mind.

It was a dream. Nothing more.

Yet the sensation lingers on my chest, as if her hand truly rested there.

She has no right to invade what belongs to me. No right to occupy the space reserved for the woman who fled.

And yet. The thread did not feel one-sided. That is what I cannot dismiss.

I sit up, fury settling into precision. If the bond is strengthening, I will master it. If Eira Cross is more entangled than she realises, I will test it.

I close my eyes and extend my will to my Twelve. They answer in silence, immediate and absolute.

Meet me in the Lower Vaults in one hour. Bring the latest batch.

Their loyalty returns as one.

Yes, sire.

I rise and cross to the Heartshard Glass. The surface shimmers as the mark pulses beneath my skin.

One new finger of crimson rests just beneath the hollow of my throat.

A dare.

A warning.

I turn from the mirror, jaw set.

By the time night falls again, I will understand exactly what has begun between us.

11

EIRA

I know something’s heinously wrong before I even step fully into the chamber.

My first mistake was thinking access to the Umbra database would involve, you know, a database.

Instead, one of the Black Twelve leads me through the tower before sunrise to a pair of soaring black double doors, and the vibe on the other side is thick enough to choke on.

Not anticipation.

Something worse.

Given a choice, I’d be hightailing it to the nearest coffee shop, ordering a gallon of black coffee, then finding a deep dark cave to examine the weird as fuck, borderline erotic-as-Netheris dream I had about Valentin Moretti last night. The dream that, thanks to Selphine and her velvet-voiced doom lectures, I can’t dismiss as harmless subconscious garbage, because in her world a cracked mirror means some ancient power just RSVP’d to your funeral.

So the dream means something.

Something I’m absolutely not touching before caffeine.

I shove my composure into first gear and step into the Lower Vaults.

Thankfully, there are no chains hammered into damp stone or blood slicking the floor. The space is theatrically vast, carved into the tower’s foundation and lit in low amber that deepens every shadow. Despite the matte black walls, it feels less like a dungeon and more like a private gallery curated for very particular tastes.

Way too ‘look at me, see how important I am’, for my pre-caffeinated senses.

And worse, because I’m learning there’s always a worse with hot-as-Netheris Moretti, four women stand in the centre of the room.