Page 47 of Hunted

Gasping for breath, I struggled to sit, mentally cursing my stupid fucking lungs for stalling on me—because I was in danger now.

Seb crossed the room with a mad grin etched across his repugnant face. He held his gun in one hand, Ethan’s blade in the other, looking as though he had devious plans for both. Each step thudded with the added weight of my imminent demise—though the left was significantly more satisfying, accompanied by the wet squelch of blood-filled shoes and the neat visual of it pulsing out of a hole in his thigh.

I may not have been able to breathe—but the Academy had prepared us for that too. As the edges of my vision blurred and darkened, I rolled into that crouched sexy-superhero-landing pose, scowl firmly in place.

With my dagger in the hands of Beckett and my gun somewhere in the shattered ceiling tile, I was left with nothing but my bare hands. Perhaps that was better… knowing I took care of Fleur’s killer with broken fingernails and feminine rage.

Yes, I decided. Infinitely better.

Sebastos, assuming he had the upper hand, prowled closer.

Just a little closer.

I feigned fear, pretended I’d all but given up. And he, ever the presumptive dickwad, took those final two steps into my stratosphere. I didn’t wait—spared no thought for the seven other armed assailants in the room—just swept my leg out in a neat arc across the floor. It prompted Seb to awkwardly jump over it, not accounting for the fact that his left was lame. He hit the floor beside me in a jarring thump, yet still managed to aim his gun in my direction.

“Not so fast, princess,” he snarled, finger itching to pull the trigger.

I raised my hands in surrender, scowling at the Commander’s son—and at the Commander himself, who was doubtlessly watching this all unfold with rapt attention and zero inclination to stop it. For a second, I wondered what Pearce made of it all.

Sebastos rose to his feet clumsily, yet not so clumsily as to give me a clear opening to disarm him. He circled me—slowly, menacingly, like a shark, lending credence to those dark, dead, bullshark eyes of his.

When he was behind me, he stepped closer, pressing his front to my back. In the same motion, he dragged the muzzle of the gun over my shoulder, along my collarbone, and up the side of my neck, angling it at last towards the underside of my chin.

Sebastos pressed closer still. His sour breath brushed past my face, tickling the shell of my ear and triggering my upchuck reflex as he whispered, “Don’t do anything silly, little bird. I want to take my time with you.”

I had no idea if he meant defilement or murder, and the bulge hardening against my lower back failed to give me clarity. He was a sick, sadistic son of a bitch who evidently got off on both.

I gritted my teeth, silencing all the violent retorts begging to drop out, knowing he was but one overreaction away from blowing my brains out.

And they say women are the emotional ones.

Movement snagged my attention—the subtle shift of a person coming to.

Unfortunately, Ethan had the timing of a poorly dropped punchline. He groaned, rolling into a seated position despite the threat of Eric’s boot—and copped a kick to the ribs for his troubles.

“Stop it,” I snapped—earning a boot to the back of my knee for mine.

With a pain-filled grunt, I landed heavily on both kneecaps. They’d bruise up amazingly if I lived through this joke of an assessment.

Sebastos changed tactics, exchanging the gun for his blade and pressing it to my neck in a pointed echo of what he’d done to Ethan mere minutes ago. He twisted our bodies so that we were on full display for Evander.

And Evander’s gaze held mine in a way that was far too intimate for a professional relationship.

I hissed as Sebastos pierced skin, ignoring the knowledge that the warmth coursing down my front was my own blood.

The professor’s gaze tracked its flow before snapping back up to my would-be murderer.

“Cough up the keyword, Lockwood, or your little lab rat gets it,” Seb spat over my shoulder.

Evander’s jaw muscles tensed a microsecond before he jerked at his bindings, trying to break free on rage alone. But Evander Lockwood wasn’t going to be my saviour today.

“Shamrock,” he finally spat through clenched teeth.

“Shamrock?” Seb drew back slightly on the knife. “Move out, Blue Team. But leave them something for your troubles.”

And then he slashed the knife across my throat—deep enough to scar, but not enough to kill.

My fellow team members, most of whom were either awake or coming around, were left with similar mementos before Blue Team departed out the far side of the room.