da Vinci
The farmhouse reeks of damp wood and rot, the kind that soaks into your lungs and never leaves. Candlelight dances along cracked walls, casting jagged shadows that twitch with every glimmer.
My knife spins against the table. Thunk, thunk, thunk. A rhythm to keep the rage from bleeding out.
The door creaks.
My grunt shoves a ragged man forward like trash. He stumbles, drops to his knees, dirt smeared across his face, sweat streaking down his temples.
“Caught him near the edge of the next town,” the grunt says. “Claims he used to run with the group you’re looking for.”
The knife stops spinning.
Interesting.
I stay seated, watching. Quiet. Calculating.
Then I smile—warm, disarming, the kind that makes prey think the wolf might pet them.
“Well,” I murmur, setting the knife down, “looks like fate finally threw me something useful.
He blinks, startled by the calm.
I rise, slow, deliberate. Extend a hand like we’re about to strike a deal. “I’m da Vinci.”
He hesitates, then grips my hand. “Pete.”
I nod. “Strong name.”
His chest puffs a little. Pathetic.
“Tell me,” I say, casual as smoke, “was there a blond woman with your group? Sharp eyes. Quicker tongue. Name of Lyla?”
His scoff is instant. “Yeah. Real pain in the ass.”
I slap him.
Hard.
His head whips sideways. He groans, clutching his jaw.
The silence swells.
I wipe my palm with a rag. “Sorry, friend. I don’t like people talking about my things like that. You understand?”
He nods fast, blood spotting his teeth. “I’m sorry.”
“Good.” I pat his head. He stays down.
“Now,” I say, “tell me about your group. Who leads?”
“Jacob,” Pete spits. “He’s the one who did this.” He gestures to the bruises on his face.
I crouch beside him. “Let me guess—he turned everyone against you and tossed you out?”
His snort flares with heat. “Exactly. Thinks he’s noble, but he’s a control freak. Everything has to go through him. And now?” He hesitates. “He’s got eyes for Lyla.”
My Lyla.
Her name coils around my chest, makes the air vibrate. My body hums with the thought of her—how her fear tastes.
I pace behind him, knife back in my hand, casual as if we’re sharing a drink. “She’s been leaving me breadcrumbs, you know. Not obvious to them—just enough for me to follow. Clever, my girl. But sloppy. She wants me to find her.”
Pete glances up, frowning. “Breadcrumbs?”
“In the woods,” I say, smiling at the memory. “A broken branch pointing the wrong way. A boot print just where it shouldn’t be. A mark on a tree only I’d notice. She’s calling me, Pete. She thinks she’s the hunter.” My voice drops into a purr. “But she’s always been the prey.”
Pete swallows hard.
“People like Jacob,” I continue, “pretend it’s about loyalty. Honor. But it’s control. They forget who kept them alive.”
Pete nods, leaning toward me now. “That’s what I’m saying. I kept them alive. Me. And they threw me out like I was nothing.”
I rest a hand on his shoulder—light, reassuring, a leash tightening. “They were wrong about you, Pete.”
He exhales. “What do you mean?”
I grip his jaw, force his eyes to mine. “I want Lyla.”
His eyes widen.
“She belongs to me.”
He freezes. “What do you plan to do?” he blurts.
I tilt my head, grin spreading slow. “I’ll take what’s mine and kill anyone in the way.” I let go, watching my fingerprints fade from his skin. “And you, Pete, are going to help me.”
“I— I don’t want—”
I slap him across the other cheek, harder. Blood drips from his lip. “You think you have a choice?”
My grunt fists Pete’s hair, holding him steady.
I press the flat of my blade to his cheek, lean in, voice a whisper soaked in malice. “Now. What route are they taking?”