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But I don’t get to finish my sentence because out of the corner of my eye, I notice a figure in black emerge from thebushes beneath the honeymoon suite and grab hold of the railing on the first-floor balcony to hoist themselves up.
I don’t need to see their face to know who it is. Only another hunter would show up at this desolate place to sneak into a haunted hotel room that’s been the scene of a grisly murder.
And no one else on our official database would come here since we claimed this job.
It’s the Shadow.
Before Brooks can stop me, I take off across the parking lot, vault the low fence, and dart between the trees. My lungs burn, but I’m still in pretty good shape from my high school football days.
“Oh, no you don’t.” I leap on the Shadow just as they throw themselves into the air to vault over the first-floor balcony.
I slam into them and hold on. They’re lighter than I expect, and I tear their hands from the balcony railing with ease. The pair of us drop to the ground. Pain jolts through me as I land hard on my back, and the Shadow’s bony elbow punches me in the gut, driving the air from my lungs.
I gasp for air, but no way am I letting this fucker out of my sight. They’re wearing tight black leggings and a baggy black trench coat with occult symbols stitched down the sleeves. They try to get up, but I grab them around their narrow waist and flip them onto their back, rolling on top so that I’m straddling them.
“Let’s see who’s been taking all our jobs,” I growl.
The Shadow yelps and tries to grab my throat, but I duck underneath and tear their hood off.
The Shadow gasps and jerks away, hiding behind a curtain of fiery red hair. They slap at my face, their palm stinging my cheek. I grab their hands and pin them to the lawn, pressing my knees into their elbows so I can wipe their hair out of their face and—
What?
No.
It can’t be.
I gasp. “Lily?”
3
THREE: LILY
Jackson?
Fuck. Fuck fuckabilly fuckaroo.
I can’t believe this.
But whether I believe it or not, it’s happening. Jackson Bellua is straddling me, his knees pinning my arms and parts of him pressing against me that make my heart stutter invery badways, and he looks every bit as delectable as I remember from high school—same dark hair shaved close to his scalp, same arresting green stare, same chiseled jawline and high cheekbones.
Of all the fucking hunters to meet at the Bridgemont Hotel, it has to be Jackson fucking Bellua.
Jackson’s eyes bore into mine, and I feel naked, my soul on display.
He leans over me, breathing hard, and his hair is all mussed, and he looks so fucking perfect that a homesick feeling wells up in my chest. All I want to do is reach up and wrap my arms around him and bury my face into his steady, dependable shoulders—
Oh hell no.
I won’t let our history convince me that I have feelings for this guy.
Jackson Bellua is anything but dependable.
“What are you doing here?” I snap, twisting my head away. I can’t bear to look into those verdant-green eyes anymore.
But Jackson’s not having it. He grabs my chin with his free hand and jerks me back to face him. Jackson’s eyes always had ripples at the edges, and they danced with mirth when he smiled, but I’ll get no smile from him today. His eyes are brittle, guarded.
“What areyoudoing here? Shouldn’t you be at college?”
