Page 52 of Hunted

He mapped me.

That’s what I can’t shake.

Not the intrusion. Not even the threat of what he could have done. It’s the restraint. The sense that Valentin Moretti didn’t break down a door because he wanted to learn how it was built before deciding whether to return with the right key.

Fresh chills crawl over my skin.

Fuck no.

I will not romanticise predation.

I strip off my jacket, drop it over a chair, and sit on the edge of the bed, forcing my pulse back into line as I catalogue what I know.

He isn’t looking for Lyra Hannigan because of her father’s debt. That hope died tonight. And this sure as hell isn’t some tragic, candlelit, violins-in-the-background love match for the ages.

Please.

He’s Don Valentin Moretti.

He beds women bred in power. Heiresses with private islands. Biotech queens who rewrite genomes before breakfast. Widows who can shut down half of Monaco because someone insulted them at a gala.

Not girls who fled Port Authority with stolen bus tickets and a backpack full of trauma.

So what does he want?

Blood? Memory? Claim?

The last thought lands coldest.

Because revenge can burn out. Desire can be redirected. Even obsession can be starved if you’re brutal enough.

But claim?

Claim digs in. Claim waits and convinces itself it has rights.

And I have no idea what Valentin Moretti thinks gives him one over me.

I lie back fully clothed and stare at the ceiling as exhaustion drags at me despite my best efforts.

There’s no need to undress.

I don’t intend to sleep.

Not with a not-so-cold bloodsucker vampire one floor away.

The dream doesn’t ease itself in with soft smoke and a gentle breeze.

Because, of course it doesn’t.

It’s my kind of dream, actually. Full action from minute one. I still hate every frame of it as it unfolds with unsettling clarity, less like dream and more like memory deciding to sharpen its teeth.

I don’t need a neon sign to tell me it’s my bedroom door from six years ago.

This time, I’m fully awake when the handle turns slowly in the dark.

The house had been silent that night, but not naturally. Every sound seemed withdrawn in anticipation, and I know he’s there before I see him.

Valentin stands in the doorway, a tower of raw power, the room recalibrating around him because apparently even architecture has survival instincts.