Chapter 9
VALENTIN
I should not have done it.
I stole her control. An indulgence, feckless and unclean, the kind of impulse I have spent centuries burning out of myself until only discipline remained.
And yet.
For several long seconds on that rooftop, with the wind tearing at her hair, the night yawning beneath her feet and her eyes boldly daring me, I forgot myself.
Worse, I enjoyed it.
Her lack of fear should have infuriated me. Humans are meant to tremble. Hunters, even arrogant ones, are meant to calculate survival with reverence when something older stands before them.
Eira Cross did not tremble.
She stared into the void and laughed. Spoke to me as though I were merely another man who had overestimated his authority.
And when she screamed, it was not surrender.
It was rage. Insult. The reclamation of dignity I had attempted to break and only succeeded in denting.
Which is as close to unnerving me as anything has come in half a millennium.
The sound still coils through my mind as I lead her into the Tower, through corridors of black stone and muted gold, past doors that conceal the machinery of my empire and the reverent attention of those who serve me.
Her racing pulse should be the only thing I notice.
Instead, I notice the set of her shoulders. The way she keeps her spine straight after being reminded how small she is compared to the sky.
I notice, too, how thin my restraint has become.
The Crimson Mother’s work. She did not simply curse. She corroded. Entrenched impossible hungers inside the blood and called them fate.
But Lyra Hannigan is the fated mate who will make me whole.
The thought is blade and balm.
Six years of absence. Six years of wrong blood. Still, the certainty grows sharper with every passing day.
I force my attention back to the hunter walking beside me. To the stranger who should mean nothing yet riles me with every breath.
And I make my voice colder. ‘You will stay here.’
She slows as we reach the private corridor leading to the residences carved into the heart of the Tower.
Her gaze flicks to me. Watchful. Assessing.
‘I didn’t realise you handled relocation personally,’ she says, with less bite than before. ‘Don’t you have a butler for this? Or one of your Black Twelve?’
I stop.
Irritation comes fast and sharp. ‘You know of them.’
Her mouth curves, faint and unreadable. ‘Everyone who values their skin knows of your personal guard.’
Not true.
Not everyone knows of the highly skilled, carefully chosen vampires who have served me for centuries. Especially not with that casual certainty.
She has been asking questions. Investigating me instead of Lyra Hannigan.
Heat flares in my chest, and for a moment I am back on the rooftop, fingers at her throat, control slipping into something more primitive.
‘What did you have to report?’ I bark.
She blinks. ‘What?’
‘You tried to save yourself from certain and gruesome death by claiming you had information for me.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘It’s not a claim if it’s the truth.’ Her tone sharpens, the old edge returning. ‘And if you’re going to question everything I bring you to death, you’ll really be wasting both our time.’
I stop walking.
The urge to glare is immediate, visceral, absurd.
I look at her mouth instead, because it is easier than looking into the strange flare of interest her defiance provokes.
Blood-red.
Full.
The kind of mouth that could stain a man’s control and make him grateful for the excuse.
The kind of mouth I would enjoy biting, healing, biting again, watching blood trail down her chin, over the pulse she hides with that collar, lower still to the luscious slope of her breasts to the crimson tips of her nipples.
Repeatedly.
I snatch my focus away as my cock stirs. ‘Speak, Miss Cross.’
She exhales, deciding how much truth to give.
‘Lyra Hannigan’s first sighting after she vanished was when she purchased a bus ticket with cash with a random name three months before your search at the Port Authority.’
My entire body stills.
Continue.
Whether she hears the silent command or not, she goes on, voice clipped with professional precision.
‘Destination was nowhere knowingly important or connected to her family that I know about. A stop in the middle of New Jersey that shouldn’t have mattered.’
A lead.
A real one.
My mark burns in approval.
‘How did you come by this? And how did you know it was her if the name was random?’
‘I know someone who knows someone who dug up deleted footage somewhere. She relied on the kindness of strangers to get what she wanted,’ she snaps, then gives me a look of pure, unimpressed exasperation.
‘And before you even think about asking, do you want the whole Revenant Agency lecture about sources and confidentiality, or do you want to pluck it out of my mind?’
The dare sharpens my attention. ‘Careful,’ I murmur. ‘I just might call your bluff.’
Her chin lifts. ‘And what? You’ll violate your precious neutrality clauses? You know that immediately violates agency contract, right? You do that and I walk out.’
Gods, she’s borderline reckless. Dangerous.
But right.
Were she freelance, I would have no compunction about delving into her mind and plucking out what I need. But Revenant does not tolerate mind-probes without consent. The consequence could be bribed or favoured away, but this information is not worth jeopardising the contract.
Besides, she is banking on me violating it.
She wants an excuse to walk away.
My irritation should be the only thing I feel. Instead, I feel the maddening urge to test her. To see what she hides behind those beautiful eyes.
Before I can stop myself, I step closer.
She does not retreat at first, but her body goes taut. When I press forward again, she takes a defiant step back, taunting me with evasion. With that pulse hidden behind her collar.
We move step by step until I pin her to the wall with the weight of my presence, one arm braced over her head, my thigh wedged forward just enough to trap space.
To remind her what proximity means when a vampire decides it.
Her breath catches.
Again, there is little fear in it.
But there is something else. A deeper pulse of interest. Anticipation she cannot hide.
I tilt my head down, voice low. ‘Permission.’
Her eyes flash. ‘You don’t get to—’
‘Permission,’ I repeat, softer, sharper. ‘There is no violation if you allow me to see this piece of information.’
We both know I will be doing more than replaying a memory. I will be testing the boundaries and fortitude of Eira Cross’s mind.
She can refuse.
But I am banking on her defiance.
Sure enough, through gritted teeth, she snaps, ‘Fine. Take the memory. And only that memory,’ she warns. ‘I’ll know if you don’t, Don Moretti.’
The corner of my mouth almost curves. ‘Are you sure you will know? Do I need to tell you how long I’ve been alive, little hunter?’
Her throat moves in a swallow she attempts to keep slow and deliberate. Her eyes remain fierce, but I scent the faintest wave of nerves.
It brings a peculiar flood to my mouth. That craving for her fear, to watch her pulse race that little bit faster, claws at the walls of my control.
‘Do it. I don’t have all night.’
‘You do if I say so, little bird.’
A sound halfway between a snort and rage spills from her before she can stop it.
She is right. This has gone on too long already.
So I lean in.
The world narrows to us. To the smooth skin just out of reach. To that impetuous mouth that draws me deeper with each passing second.
Then I reach with my mind and slide into the offered thread with surgical restraint, past the hum of blood and firing synapses to the kernel of information lit like a beacon.
Port Authority.
Exactly as she said.
Grainy camera footage. A girl with dark hair pulled back, her face turned away. She speaks to a stranger in the line at the ticket counter. A young man, I note with a sliver of uncontrollable fury and acid jealousy. One who smiles at whatever request she makes and nods eagerly.
Lyra stays to the side as he procures the ticket. She takes it, shakes her head at the embarrassingly obvious interest he fumbles towards her, then walks away swiftly, curiously never exposing her face fully to the camera.
The next clip shows the destination where she was meant to arrive.
Even before the bus empties, I know she will not appear. She managed to lose herself after boarding.
The memory ends, but I do not withdraw at once.
I remain within the narrow corridor she has permitted, holding the thread lightly while brushing the edges of her mind with deliberate subtlety. Not enough to violate permission. Enough to test.
Most humans’ thoughts splinter at the first touch. Most hunters brace, their defences more theatrical than structural.
Eira’s mind does not fracture.
It hardens.
I push a touch harder and jolt against walls layered with architectural precision rather than panic. Barricades shift, doors seal, corridors redirect. Access narrows to the single sanctioned memory.
Everything else becomes very neutral grey.
Very deliberately, I drag a sharp mental nail down one barricade.
Her pulse spikes. Then she pushes back.
I glance down. Her eyes are shut, lips pressed tight, breathing controlled.
Interesting.
I press a fraction harder and her response is immediate and trained. Internal gates tighten. Focus reroutes. She does not shove me out.
She contains me.
Someone with considerable skill has taught her how to safeguard her mind from probing.
Impressive.
She would not last more than a minute under the pressure I could apply, but it is still noteworthy.
I withdraw with measured restraint. And Eira immediately shoves my chest, not hard enough to move me, but enough to make her displeasure unmistakable.
‘Satisfied?’ Her eyes flash. ‘And what the fuck were you doing?’
I raise a taunting brow. ‘What do you mean, little hunter?’
‘Don’t pretend you didn’t try to breach my walls. To go where you damn sure aren’t supposed to.’
‘I assessed,’ I correct mildly.
Her jaw tightens. ‘No. You fucking pushed.’ She lets out a sharp breath. ‘You try that again without permission, and I will make you regret it.’
A lesser creature would laugh.
I do not.
I lean in just enough for my voice to drop between us. ‘You believe you can stop me?’
‘I believe,’ she says evenly, though her fingers curl slightly, ‘that if you ever try to tear through my mind without consent, I will not just stop you. I will end you.’
Bold.
I study her face, searching for the tremor beneath the threat.
There is none.
‘You misunderstand the scale between us,’ I tell her quietly. ‘If I chose to break your mind, Miss Cross, it would take seconds. You would not even understand what was happening until you were kneeling.’
Her spine stiffens, but her eyes do not waver. ‘Then it’s fortunate for both of us that I’m currently useful,’ she replies coolly. ‘Because neither of us gets to find out just how bad I am at kneeling.’
Useful.
I let the silence stretch, fighting the irrational fury that a human hunter uncovered more in seven days than I have in six relentless years of resources, spies and blood spilled in Lyra’s name.
The humiliation is surgical.
Not because she has outmatched me. Because I allowed myself to believe force would find Lyra when perhaps I should have understood from the beginning that she would require something far more delicate to reclaim.
‘Are we done here? I need to follow it up.’
‘No.’
Her eyes sharpen. ‘Excuse me?’
I lean closer, cold authority settling back into place.
‘I have a lead of my own,’ I say. ‘One that does not involve chasing ghosts through bus stations.’
Her mouth twists. ‘You have your own lead? Then why summon me at all?’
Because you unsettle me.
Because you smell wrong and I cannot stop looking at you.
Because the mark is burning, time is pressing, and my patience is becoming something dangerous.
I say none of that.
Instead, I turn away.
‘First thing tomorrow morning, you’ll be granted access to Umbra’s databases,’ I tell her coolly. ‘You will follow the trail I give you. And you will report to me in person.’
As her footsteps fade, I summon Malachi without words.
The command travels through blood and bond, and moments later the eldest of my Twelve steps into the chamber, immaculate in black, the matte onyx ring on his hand catching the faintest gleam as he inclines his head.
‘Don.’
I open the corridor in my mind and send the memory straight into his. Malachi absorbs it without reaction, though I feel the flicker of curiosity before he shutters it. I give him no verbal order. I do not need to. The command is clear enough.
Find him.
His chin lowers. ‘At once, Sire.’
He turns to leave, then hesitates for the smallest fraction.
‘You have something to say?’
Malachi’s discipline is worthy of his rank, but his thought slips before he can mask it. ‘If the objective is retrieval, the Twelve are more than capable. You need not rely on her.’
There is a sneer around the final thought.
‘You believe this is a matter of capability?’ I ask mildly.
Perhaps I am being unfair. Perhaps I have kept too much from them. At first, Lyra Hannigan was a deferred concern, a debt to be collected when convenient.
Then the mark arrived.
Malachi lowers his head. ‘If I have disappointed you—’
‘Careful,’ I interrupt, my tone sharpening at last. ‘Should I be questioning my own maker for the inadequacy of the bloodline?’
He stiffens, chastened. ‘No, Don. You shouldn’t.’
‘Then do not question my methods. The hunter is an instrument. Nothing more.’
He bows, but something colder moves beneath the surface. Resentment. Rivalry. The first bitter taste of rebellion, controlled but not extinguished.
Good.
Let him dislike her.
Let the Twelve bristle at a human brought too close to their master’s secrets. Eira Cross has tested me enough tonight; perhaps a little overt friction from my guard will prove entertaining.
‘And Malachi.’
He pauses.
‘You have not inquired as to why I seek Lyra. Do not let your interest be roused now. You will be apprised only when I deem it appropriate.’
The command is quiet.
Absolute.
He bows deeper this time and leaves without another word.
Alone, I turn towards the darkened city and allow myself one final, private admission.
The hunter unsettles my guard.
And if I am not careful, she will do far more than that.