Page 79 of Hunted

“Don’t call me that.”

But he ignored the demand in lieu of humming a familiar song. One I hadn’t heard in literal years. Not since I snuck into a stadium they were playing at and watched Hayley headbang along to the music like she’d never have back problems to worry about.

Pearce shifted from humming to all-out singing, and suddenly the apartment went from a humble abode to a concert hall. He belted out the lyrics of For a Pessimist, I’m Pretty Optimistic with a skill that would absolutely make the band proud, and I was forced to once again shift my perspective on one of my three captors.

Unwilling to bed-thieve any longer, I tossed back the covers and slowly found my feet. I wriggled my toes as a wave of pain lanced my belly, bemoaning the fact that I’d lost my socks somewhere along the way, and had somehow acquired an oversized band shirt in my sleep. It was black and disgustingly soft—the kind of soft that spoke to years of regular wear—bearing an elegantly interlinked V and A right above my heart.

“Venom Arcade,” I mused, testing the words beneath the logo aloud, and finding I quite liked the taste of them rolling off my tongue one after the other.

Pearce danced around the kitchen, oblivious. He collected things and put together a plate of food, all while I watched from the doorway, sceptical yet highly amused.

Not that I’d let him know it.

Not until he’d paid me back in an equal level of mortification like he’d subjected me to the last time I was here.

And maybe not until I’d sabotaged his career as well.

Pearce whirled around, using a spatula as a makeshift microphone—surprisingly on key—freezing mid-lyric when he finally noticed me watching. He pointed the utensil at my chest accusingly. “Not a word.”

I fought back a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

His shoulders dropped in stark relief, the tension leaving him.

“You get a whole sentence.”

His eyes shot to mine, panic lingering within those hazel depths.

“I don’t know how the fuck you found out, Pearce,” I began, wincing when adjusting my posture tugged at whatever stitches I now possessed, “but you just sang a surprisingly impressive rendition of a song off my favourite album of all time, in a way that Hayley herself would be proud of, and what’s worse is I don’t even think you were singing singing, but more just mucking-around-in-the-kitchen singing.”

He shrugged casually, in a way that told me he knew exactly what I was talking about and that yes, he absolutely could do better than that in a different setting.

Bastard.

I’d always wanted to be good at that. Maybe then I’d be on a stage somewhere, not hiding in the shadows waiting to kill the people who were.

“Here, take this,” Pearce said, handing me a heat pack he’d had the forethought to warm up. “And stop calling me Pearce.”

“Fine. Thanks for this, Donkey.”

Deklan—because I couldn’t refer to him as an animated ass in my head—gaped. Then, realising he could catch a whole host of flies in that mouth, slammed his jaw shut with an audible clack. The muscles in his cheeks worked as he chewed on my favoured substitution.

“I’ll have you know that movie won an Academy Award, Adelaide Sinclair. It is a classic. The absolute best the early noughties had to offer,” he harrumphed, looking for all the world like he was a second away from toddler-esque foot stomping.

I snorted. “You’d know all about naughties, wouldn’t you, Sir?” A smirk played at the corner of my lips—matching the one in the corner of his.

“What did I tell you, Deadly?” he drawled, stepping closer.

“That the use of the word Sir in that context was a kink.” I bit my lip to stop the smile from spreading.

“Correct.” He stepped closer again, now a foot away. Leaning in to whisper in my ear, he said, “But not one of mine.” He pulled back with a wink, then turned his back and led the way through to the couch. “Come on, hotshot. Time to see if you can back up those real life skills with ones of the digital variety.”

He waited until I found a comfortable position on the leather surface—cross-legged and kind of curled in on myself—then handed me the plate of food. “But first, eat.”

Never one to look a gift pancake in the mouth, I dug in. Forgoing the offered cutlery and ignoring Deklan’s little snickers at my voracity, I managed to shove three chocolate chip pancakes, two hard-boiled eggs, and a strip of bacon into my mouth before my stomach rebelled.

“Where are the others? And who said you were allowed to sing and cook?” I asked around a mouthful of the last pancake.

Deklan laughed softly, swapping the plate with a controller and taking the former back to the kitchen. “Van is packing up his desk”—he shot me a pointed look—“and Beck is in a meeting with the Commander. Both will be back any minute now, then I’ll have to share you.” He pouted, racking the freshly washed dish and coming back over to the couch. He sat beside me, seeing as I’d parked my ass right in the middle, but moved so slowly it was almost comical.