Page 44 of Hunt Me

“No promises. Anything else?”

“Take me to the moon first?”

He grinned. “Jump.”

Throwing caution to the wind, Matilda turned and fell out of the castle window. As her body sliced through the frigid air, she wondered why she trusted her mortal enemy as much as she did. What was it that made her believe that he’d never let her fall?

17

Primal Instincts

Matilda’s teeth chattered as she traversed through the frozen forest. It had been at least an hour since her feet touched down in the snow, and she’d yet to come across her vampire admirer in the woods. The delusional king was concerned about her suffering from indigestion when he should’ve been worried she’d catch a sickness of the chest.

She continued deeper into the forest, following her nose. They had bedded each other so much that she realized the vampire king had a distinct smell. He smelled of clovers mixed with iron from the copious amount of blood he consumed. His scent was comforting—marginally addictive—reminding her of gingerbread, mulled wine, and a toffee apple treat she had devoured as a child. It reminded her of a simpler time.

Matilda perked up a few minutes later when his scent threatened to bombard her.

“He’s close,” she whispered, readying the carving knives she had swiped from the tender meats she consumed at dinner. Her breath caught when she discovered Luka relaxing in a natural hot spring. His clothes lay folded on a nearby log, with his boots placed beside them.

Soundlessly, she crept towards him, carefully avoiding any troublesome twigs that would give away her location. She hoped the freshly fallen powdery snow didn’t give away her position. She couldn’t hear her footfalls, but she also didn’t have supernatural hearing like the vampire who recently found refuge between her thighs.

“You would be so cowardly to attack me while my back is turned?” he asked suddenly, stopping her in her tracks.

“I’m still holding out for five thousand gold coins.”

Luka snorted and ran his fingers through his damp hair.

“I should’ve known better. You hunters have no morals.”

Matilda lowered her knives to the snow.

“Ironic that someone without a soul can speak on morals.”

“Fair point. Will you join me?”

“I don’t appreciate your ruse. I assumed I would be streaking vampire blood across the bleached snow when you ordered me to hunt you.”

Luka’s head fell back, exposing his Adam’s apple to the full moon. He wanted to take in his future queen as she disrobed.

“I’m sorry to disappoint. Strip for me, huntress.”

Matilda was unaware the horny vampire was gently palming himself beneath the steamy water as he watched her shimmy out of her dress. He loathed himself for not telling her earlier how beautiful she was in her evening gown. Black and gold complemented her best. She had a natural regalness that couldn’t be taught, bought, or replicated. Again, he found himself comparing the future queen to his past love. Anastasia was a timid wildflower, and despite her title, she struggled to make eye contact when she spoke to most. He adored her timidness, but Matilda’s confidence intrigued him in a way he’d never been moved before.

He licked his bottom lip as he caught sight of the curly thatch of hair blanketing the triangle above her womanhood. Her hair was impossibly soft, and he loved burying his nose in it whenever he feasted on her.

Luka wasn’t a public exhibitionist, but he loved fucking her outside in the snow. Her nipples hardened, giving him purchase when he sucked and nipped them. Her lips would tint blue, and he’d kiss them until they were pink from their exchange of heat. There was something strangely intimate about watching warmth return to her, as though he were coaxing life back into something the coldness had stolen. He’d use his outstretched wings to protect her from the harsh elements—the bite of the blustery wind, the icy rain, and the snowflakes that loved to cling to her lashes.

His vision trailed her as she hissed and cursed under her breath about freezing to death and losing her toes as she tiptoed toward the spring. He grew harder when she sighed as she slid into the hot water. It was the same sigh she’d release when he impaled her. Her head always fell back, exposing her carotid to him. The blood rushed through her veins, pumping and beckoning him to have a bite. The huntress always tempted his restraint. She had no idea how close she’d been to having her throat ripped out or how he could crush her skull with slight pressure when he cradled her close to him. He could burst through her cervix if he thrusted as hard as he wanted. She had no idea that when it came to her, he treated her like a delicate butterfly—fearful that he might rip a dainty wing.

“Why must you sit so far away, huntress?”

“Matilda,” she said, then reconsidered. “You may call me Tilda.”

His brows shot upward in surprise. The huntress was warming up to him.

“Very well, Tilda. Why must you sit so far away?”

“Because I wish to speak, and I know that won’t happen if we’re in close proximity.”