Page 145 of Hunted

It is vile.

Not herbal bitterness vile. Not medicine is gross vile. This is old-magic vile, metallic and sharp like blood held in silver, with a sweetness underneath that turns my stomach and burns all the way down.

The second it hits my belly, it spreads fast.

Heat blooms outward and my skin prickles. My tongue goes numb at the edges as my heart stutters once, races, then settles into a rhythm that feels tuned.

Too aware of itself.

I brace my hands on the counter and breathe through my nose. I’ve taken Selphine’s potions before. Panicking only makes them bite harder.

Then the sensation shifts.

And fuck, I feel like I’ve been zapped to life with a cattle prod.

Smell comes first. Layers everywhere. Linen in the couch. Polish on wood. My own soap. The distant iron tang of the Tower elevators, like old coins and secrets.

Then a faint throb behind my teeth, as if my gums have developed opinions.

A coolness slides through my veins, and when I swallow, my throat feels different. Open. Sensitive.

Waiting.

Fucking Netheris demons, what is this?

I stare at myself in the mirror, searching for anything obvious – glowing eyes, black veins, a gothic ‘congratulations you’ve been hexed’ forehead stamp.

Nothing… besides my pupils looking a touch wider, my skin seeming to catch the light like I’ve been sleeping and drinking water and making good life choices.

Which I absolutely have not.

‘Great,’ I mutter at my reflection. ‘So I’m not turning into a bat. Disappointing.’

An hour later, I emerge from the lift showered, dressed in black and strapped in all the right places. Weapons sit snug against my body, familiar and reassuring.

My hair is damp at the roots, face composed, pulse steady in that strange new rhythm.

Damn Selphine, but I feel great.

The Tower lobby is busy but hushed in that quietly efficient way that comes from standing too close to indescribable power. Five of the Twelve are stationed across the atrium, tailored menace and black stares.

And at the far end, near the private access corridor, Valentin waits.

He watches me walk to him with unwavering fixation that bites marrow deep.

When I reach him, he leans in, breath skimming my ear. ‘You washed my scent off. That does not please me, little hunter.’

A ridiculous flush skates over my skin. ‘I needed a shower. You’ll survive the indignity.’

His eyes narrow. Then he pauses. Frowns.

I feel the shift in him in my bones, attention sharpening like a blade finding its mark.

‘And why do you smell—’ He stops, jaw flexing, nostrils flaring.

‘Wrong?’ I offer, because my mouth cannot resist danger. ‘I thought we talked about that?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head once, like he’s fighting something. ‘The opposite.’