Page 77 of The Order of the Bitter Hunt

My mouth goes dry as I answer the call. I’m both dreading and craving the jagged sound of his voice.

“Hello.” I close my eyes and set my phone on speaker.

“Tonight is the first trial.” He doesn’t bother returning the greeting. There must be something wrong.

“I know.” I hold a dress up to my body and peer into the mirror. “My father gave me an advantage—he told me this morning. It’s a mental trial.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was busy.”

“Huh. The letter didn’t mention a mental trial. I guess he’s playing favorites. What the hellisa mental trial, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Tobey said it might be a puzzle, or a riddle, or something…”

Jun groans. “Well, that’s great. I won’t be very fucking helpful.”

I set the dress down and flop onto my bed, sitting up against the wall. “I can imagine.”

“Funny.” He hesitates. “We’re going together, right?”

Why does he sound unsure? Jun has no right to be nervous. He was the one who left me this morning.

“Wehaveto go together,” I say stiffly, rolling my eyes and banging the back of my head against the wall—just once. “My father thinks we’re mates, remember?”

Why do I feel like I’m hanging on to his words? The hitching of his breath, every lingering pause. Of course, he doesn’t give me anything of substance.

He laughs. Oh, how I’ve come to loathe and adore the sound of his laughter.

“And I’m an excellent mate. I wouldn’t let you go into this trial alone.”

“How chivalrous of you.”

“Are you scared?”

The question hangs between us. Ishouldbe afraid of my father, and I should certainly be worried about the trial waiting for us, but I’m not. It’s not bravery; it’s a privilege. I’m functioning with the faith that my father will not hurt me.

Will he hurt Jun? It’s harder to say. Perhaps not if he’s Strode’s son, and my mate, but I won’t take any chances. We’ll work our way out of this, even if I have to use every ounce of my mental fortitude.

“No,” I say. “And you shouldn’t be either. We have this in the bag.”

“Mm… I like your confidence.”

It’s feigned confidence, of course. I don’t feel it in my bones. If I did, I would be brave enough to ask why he ran away in the morning. I would ask if he feels what I feel or if it’s still part of the game. Pretending not to want Jun is becoming another trial, at this point.

The questions die on my tongue.

“Thanks.” I swallow. “Jun?”

“Hm?”

“Have you ever let anyone else feed from you?”

It’s not the question I want to ask, but it’s an answer I need. Why is he acting as if nothing happened? He may be used to letting people drink from him. It may meannothingto him, and it shouldn’t mean anything to me, either.

He doesn’t answer for a moment.

“No,” he says in a low voice. “Yesterday was my first time.”