Page 83 of Hunted

The silver is fully expanded now, bright and merciless, the truth of him spilling into the open.

‘I will take my kiss now, I think.’

17

EIRA

‘Wait!’

His hand is still at my jaw, holding me still, fully and utterly in control.

The silver in his eyes flares with impatience that should terrify me and somehow only makes me feel more awake, more painfully present, every nerve pulled taut and tuned to him.

And right now, his eyes are bright, his nostrils flared, his attention so intent it feels like a hand at the back of my neck.

‘No. I will not.’

‘I just want to say…’ I manage, because my voice is mine again and I’m going to use it, even if it comes out breathless and betraying. ‘No fangs. Give me your word or no deal.’

For a beat, the air hangs charged and expectant.

Then his gaze drops to my mouth, slow and deliberate, granting himself the pleasure of looking before he takes. His thumb shifts along my jawline, barely brushing the corner of my mouth.

‘You think me incapable of restraint,’ he murmurs, low and velvety, almost offended.

‘Valentin,’ I breathe, and saying his name feels dangerous, a warning and an invitation tangled together.

His pupils contract, then expand. ‘I am capable,’ he says, ‘but you are not to test it.’

My laugh is shaky and unfamiliar. ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’

Because while he loftily praises his restraint, I feel him.

The thick imprint of his cock against my belly. Hot steel he’s not doing a damn thing to hide.

He answers by leaning in.

The first contact isn’t the crash my mind braced for. Not the devouring my fear insisted would come. It’s controlled and almost slow, the press of his mouth to mine firm enough to steal my breath while still feeling measured.

He’s proving a point. That he can take without tearing, claim without wounding.

I tense on instinct, and he makes a sound against my lips. Not quite a growl. Quieter. More dangerous because it suggests fathoms-deep pleasure held on a leash.

His hand leaves my jaw and slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair with unhurried authority. The kiss deepens with patient inevitability, his mouth angling to fit mine as if he’s already mastered the shape of me.

I should pull back. Remind myself this is payment. A wager. A boundary line I drew in panic and arrogance.

Instead, I open.

Barely snatch back a moan.

The moment I do, silver flares in his eyes like a struck match. He takes that invitation with devastating precision, lips parting, breath brushing mine, tongue touching mine in a first, testing sweep.

Patient.

Terrifyingly patient.

As if he’s tasting not just my mouth, but my response. My surrender and defiance.