Page 97 of Hunted

I don’t leave a message because Tezra hates voicemail on principle and once told me only debt collectors and emotionally unstable exes leave voice notes.

I stand in my kitchen with my phone in my hand and the urge to call someone else gnawing at me.

Selphine?

No, thank you.

The woman drip-feeds support. Besides, I’m not ready to divulge the avalanche I rode into stupid-ville last night.

Not before I have to.

So I call the next teleporter on the list, shove the phone away, and head out.

Seven seconds later, I’m back in New York City.

The Tower rises over the morning, cold and arrogant, all glass and steel and money and secrets. By the time I step through security and into the private lift route, I’ve wrapped enough composure around myself to pass for merely annoyed.

Which, to be fair, is also true.

I’m met not by Malachi but by Aaron, another of the Black Twelve. I know his name before he gives it because I catalogue predators on sight, and he’s the sort who would be forgettable if he weren’t trying so hard to look harmless.

Lean rather than massive with dark hair tied low at the nape. Clean planes, unreadable eyes, black suit cut close to a frame that looks deceptively elegant until he shifts and you catch the coiled economy underneath. Where Malachi carries hostility like a blade, Aaron wears mildness like a trap set with good manners.

‘Hunter,’ he says, inclining his head.

‘Bodyguard Number Two,’ I reply, because if I start polite, I might lose momentum.

A corner of his mouth moves. ‘My name’s Aaron.’

‘Eira.’ I pause. ‘Unless your sire has renamed me this morning.’

His gaze flicks over me. ‘Not to my knowledge. He asked that I escort you to his private quarters. He is waiting to breakfast with you.’

I stare. ‘Breakfast.’

‘Yes.’

‘For me, or with me?’

That earns me an almost amused glance. ‘With you.’

‘Good to know. I’d hate to arrive underdressed for cannibal brunch.’

He says nothing, but his jaw shifts. It’s a tiny nick but I’ll take it.

As we walk, I use the silence like a pry bar. ‘Where’s Malachi?’

‘Out.’

‘Out where?’

‘Taking care of the sire’s business.’

‘That sounded rehearsed.’

‘It is sufficient and accurate for those who pry into business that doesn’t concern them.’

Ooh. Pointy. ‘It was vague at best.’