Page 74 of Hunted

‘It was something. Tell me or never call me again.’

The vehemence in her voice startles me.

‘Fine,’ I mutter. ‘It was a dream. Rooftop. Falling. With him. It got a little… heated.’

Heat rises to my cheeks.

‘Congratulations,’ I say dryly. ‘I’m apparently describing erotic nightmare material to someone old enough to have invented gravity.’

‘Describe it,’ she commands.

‘What? Why?’

‘Don’t question me, child. Describe it to me.’

Kill. Me. Now.

I hesitate, then comply, recounting the rooftop, the fall, the heat of his body, the way the dream twisted into something more intimate than terror.

The things he said.

Selphine interrupts twice for details. Tone. Exact words. When I finish, she’s quiet for too long.

‘I need to reconsider your protection,’ she says.

‘Reconsider it how?’

‘A different angle. Stronger fortification. Something less… passive.’

‘That sounds expensive,’ I mutter, because everything with Selphine is. Money. Blood. Sanity. ‘And how much is this new angle going to cost me?’ I ask.

Silence.

‘Selphine?’

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone.

Because, of course.

I bypass the tequila and make chamomile and honey tea, because apparently that is my coping mechanism now. I check the locks again as I sip. Reset the perimeter wards. Turn out the living room lights.

The house is quiet.

Safe.

I exhale, letting the warmth and comfort blanket me.

Then I head towards my bedroom, exhaustion finally dragging at me.

I push the door open. And freeze, clouted by the memory of another bedroom. Another invasion.

Valentin Moretti is lounging in the armchair in the corner of my room, one ankle resting over the opposite knee, hands folded loosely, as if he’s been waiting for hours and patience is simply another accessory he wears well.

His gaze lifts to mine.

Calm.

Cold.