Page 71 of Hunted

Two hours later, I step back into the heat.

Between the cameras, witnesses and paper trail I’ve planted, if Valentin’s minions check, they’ll see I came here, searched, then left.

Nothing more.

I text Tezra again.

The air ripples, and he steps out with another exaggerated bow. ‘Round two?’

I nod, swallowing an unexpected bout of homesickness. ‘Take me home.’

He studies me half a second longer than usual. ‘You okay, Eira?’

I nod and show him the next picture.

‘South Carolina?’ he asks quietly.

‘Yes,’ I murmur.

Because if I don’t get to my sanctuary soon, I might start believing there’s nowhere left I can breathe.

He reattaches the hook lock. ‘Ready?’

This time, I don’t hesitate.

‘Let’s go.’

14

EIRA

I breathe in the air of my adopted hometown as Tezra unhooks me and presents his portable reader.

The second I pay, he taps out a salute.

‘See you around, Eira.’ Then he winks out of existence.

I chose an alley without cameras, tucked between a closed florist and a law office that keeps banker’s hours. I waste no time pulling on my disguise: dark wig, switched contacts, reversed jacket. One of many survival kits I’ve perfected over the years.

Five minutes later, I’m in the long-term car park where I store my bike. I have three other modes of transport hidden across the city, including a battered pickup with fake plates and a compact sedan no one looks at twice, but today I crave two wheels and open air.

Maybe the wind will strip some insanity out of my bloodstream.

Like the intrusive thought of Valentin Moretti’s mouth on mine. His breath warm. His fingers sliding⁠—

Netheris fire, stop.

The bike roars to life beneath me, louder than necessary because I twist the throttle like it personally offended me. The vibration rattles through my bones, and I glare at the idiot in a nearby car who shoots me a look.

Yeah. Take a fucking number, my dude.

Charlotte welcomes me like an old friend, no questions asked.

Streetlights flicker on as dusk deepens across brick storefronts. A couple laughs outside a wine bar. For one weak moment, I consider detouring for coffee at my usual place, maybe a slow loop past the river.

But home pulls harder.

Ten minutes later, I turn down a narrow road bordered by oak trees heavy with Spanish moss. My cottage sits tucked behind a gentle curve, whitewashed brick softened by ivy, shutters painted sage green.