Page 20 of Hunted

‘Eira Cross is here to see you, Don Moretti.’

For a fraction of a second, the room stills. The city outside continues its hum. The mark flares once, hot enough to command attention.

I finish buttoning my shirt and smooth the fabric over the rune until nothing remains visible.

Control slides back into place, seamless as skin.

Whatever waits beyond that door will be dealt with properly.

‘Bring her to me,’ I say.

A fraction of a second later, I’m back at the window, already certain the hunt has finally reached its end.

I don’t turn when she enters.

That alone usually unnerves people.

Silence does the rest.

The door closes behind her and I let the room settle, let the city’s dying light glaze the glass and give me what I want most right now.

An accurate reflection.

She stops just inside the threshold, and notably, it is not the frozen or hesitant position of prey in a predator’s lair.

It is deliberate. Her weight distributed evenly, knees soft, spine aligned.

Her gaze moves once, twice, then fixes on the room rather than me, judging vantage and exit points. Which ornaments could supplement the impressive weaponry strapped openly and discreetly on her person.

It takes less than a handful of seconds.

When she’s done, she doesn’t rush to fill the space with noise or deference.

Interesting.

I continue to take her in, cataloguing her from head to toe.

Ash-blonde hair pulled back with utilitarian precision, no softness wasted on ornament. Pale blue eyes, either enhanced or diminished by contacts. Calm mouth. A body built for endurance and violence rather than display, though that doesn’t make it any less arresting.

Strength lives in her shoulders, in the way her arms hang ready rather than relaxed. She moves like someone who expects trouble and plans to survive it.

Her nerves register anyway.

I feel them like static in the air, a fine tension beneath her composure. Everyone feels something in my presence. Anyone who claims otherwise is either lying or already dead.

Fear is acceptable, as long as it doesn’t slow them down.

She reaffirms the exits, the windows, the lines of approach. She does not look back at the guards, two of my Black Twelve stationed outside. She knows better than to waste attention on what she cannot change.

‘Miss Cross,’ I say, my voice steady and unhurried.

She shifts her gaze to me at last, but only long enough to acknowledge that I exist before returning to the room. ‘Don Moretti.’

No honorific stumble. No eagerness or apology for the wait.

Elusive, then. Deliberately so.

Perhaps even a hint of hauteur. A curious aggravation from a woman summoned by a being she either knows better than to irk and does not care, or a miscalculation on her part that she is not already under my control.