Chapter 28
Hunter
The gas station two blocks from campus is the kind that never really sleeps.
It’s close enough to campus for freshmen to walk to and the guy behind the counter rarely checks ID.
The air has a unique scent, the mix of gasoline and old grease drifting out of the mini-mart–fried food that’s been sitting under heat lamps too long.
I kill the engine and step out into the cold.
It slices right through my jacket. We’re halfway through December.
Exams are winding down. The solstice is a few days away.
After that, the holidays. I haven’t thought much about whether I’ll go home or not.
It’s strange, but the House of Night feels more like home than my parents' house ever did.
I twist the gas cap loose, metal cold against my palm, and hook the nozzle into place.
There’s a scratch across the top of my knuckle–one the kitten made as we handed her over to a grinning Mateo after a late night stop for supplies.
We weren’t sure if the King would allow a kitten in the house, but the dormitory? He probably wouldn't even notice.
Squeezing the handle, the pump hums, and I lean back against the truck and wait.
The bell on the shop door chimes and a tall, dark-haired woman steps out; it takes a second before my brain catches up.
Our eyes meet.
“Hunter,” Sofia Martinez says, her voice carrying easily over the hum of the pump.
“Evening.”
She stops a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat like she’s keeping herself anchored. There’s a smudge of exhaustion under her eyes that every professor, TA, and student on campus has as the semester winds down.
“How’d you feel about the exam the other day?” she asks, going straight to TA mode.
I shrug, one shoulder lifting. “You tell me.”
She laughs because we both know I aced it. Engineering is clean and logical, with problems that have answers if you work them long enough. It’s the rest of life that refuses to resolve, no matter how carefully you calculate.
“I heard about the body,” she says, like she’s talking about the weather. “You guys found it?”
“Yep.” I run my hand through my hair. “It was rough. Did you go to the vigil?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
My mind jumps backward, to the last time we talked outside of class. Not about circuits or load calculations, but about what’s lurking in Forsyth.
Her voice had been tight then, controlled in the way people get when they’re afraid they won’t be believed.
She told me about the drink she stopped halfway through because something felt off.
The way another patron, a man, lingered inside just long enough to watch her leave, then followed five minutes later like it was coincidence.
Average face. Baseball cap. Nothing distinctive enough to hold onto. Could’ve been any frat boy on campus. Then the messages started. They came from blank profiles and burner accounts. We checked.
You looked beautiful in blue.
I like how your hair smells.
Working late again tonight, Sofia?
Too specific to ignore. Too vague to pin down.
Campus security told her to walk with a friend. Change her passwords. Be more careful. The cops said their hands were tied unless he touched her. Like fear didn’t count unless it left bruises.
She’d rolled up her sleeve and shown me the tattoo on her arm–a coiled snake, in dark ink. The KNT sigil. Counts. She said her half-brother, Bruno Perez, forced it on her before his death. To keep her safe, he’d told her.
The pattern is getting harder to ignore. Whoever’s behind it is hunting Royal women. North, South, East, West, and our plot of land snaking between them all. And Sofia falls into that category, whether she claims it or not.
“Anything I need to know about?” I ask, keeping my voice casual. Neutral. “Anything off?”
She hesitates. Just a beat too long. Barely there if you aren’t looking for it.
“No,” she says. “Nothing new.”
My gut tightens. “Are the Dukes providing protection?” They agreed to it, but Sofia definitely has an independent streak, and I’m not sure how much she’s cooperated.
“They’re keeping an eye on my apartment, and I recognize the guys trailing me on campus. I’ve told Lavinia it isn’t necessary.”
My eyes flick briefly to the road, to the dark stretch beyond the lights. “I don’t think that’s a theory I’d want to test. Every female in Forsyth needs protection right now, and with North Side in a complete meltdown, Lucia may be the closest thing you’ve got to an ally.”
She exhales, a tired little sound, and gives me a look that’s half gratitude, half resignation. “Lavinia doesn’t want anything to do with the charred remains of her father’s kingdom.” She snorts softly. “I don’t blame her. Anyone left is hopped up on Scratch and bad decisions.”
I don’t tell her that there are four frats working together right now to make life better for the children in Forsyth, even if it’s just for one day.
I know it won’t matter because I witnessed the dysfunction of North Side myself.
I haven’t forgotten about the blood I scrubbed off my boots after picking up the kid’s body.
Or the smell of the warehouse that wouldn’t quite go away, no matter how hot the water got.
One bad decision among many, all stacked on top of each other, leaving women like Sofia Martinez alone.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” she adds quickly, like she’s cutting off the conversation before it digs too deep. “I’m fine. That guy was just a fucking creep.”
The pump jerks hard in my hand, and I release the handle. When I turn around, she’s already climbing into her SUV. I watch the red taillights flare as she pulls away, swallowed by the dark beyond the station’s glow.
I stand there for a second longer than necessary, cold seeping into my bones.
Then I get back into my truck and crank the engine.
My mind drifts to where it always does lately–to Arianette. To the idea of her alone in a place like this. No House of Night. No King’s shadow stretching over her shoulder. No army of Shadows quietly watching from the dark.
Just her.
How easy it would be, how fast someone like her could become another name. Another face on a flyer. Another body cold and posed in death.
My jaw tightens. Anger burns hot in my chest, cutting through the cold.
I grip the steering wheel harder than I need to.
Then I pull back onto the road and head toward the community center—carrying that anger with me, letting it turn into something useful: motivation.
Because my people don’t get to be alone. Not on my watch.
Dawn is only a few hours away when I finally push through the bedroom door.
My head’s still thick with the smell of old paper and the jagged edges of everything I read in those brittle books in the library.
The house feels heavy–no, I feel heavy carrying the weight of the old ways, like I released a toxin into the air, and now I’m struggling to breathe.
Ares is waiting the second I step inside.
He doesn’t bark, just rises from his spot by the foot of the bed, ears pricked, tail giving one slow sweep.
His dark eyes track me as I shut the door behind me, the soft click of the latch louder than it should be in the quiet.
He pads over, nudges my palm once with his wet nose, quick approval, then drops back to the rug like he’s decided I’m allowed to stay.
The room is dim, with only the faint blue glow from the moonlight sneaking through the curtains.
Arianette’s bed is empty, quilt pulled up to the pillow, like she never made it there.
I look for the shape of her in the dark and find her curled against Damon on his bed.
He’s got one forearm slung low and possessive around her waist, fingers splayed over the soft dip of her stomach.
Her back is pressed to his chest, legs tangled with his, her breathing slow and even.
Her hair is tucked away in the silk bonnet, wispy hairs curling out under the edge.
Her shirt is thin and has ridden up in her sleep.
The hem sits just under the curve of her breasts, leaving the bottom swell of them bare.
Warm skin, the faintest shadow where her ribs give way to softness. My throat goes tight.
I cross the room without thinking, boots silent on the carpet. Ares watches me, but doesn’t move. When I stop beside the bed, I’m towering over her, close enough to smell the faint coconut of her shampoo and the warmer, muskier scent that’s all Damon underneath it.
He fucked her tonight, laying claim to her like he said he would. The Baroness is the golden prize for dealing with the death and rot, the rituals and commands. He’ll take her every chance he gets, and I’m envious of how easy it is for him.
Her lashes are long, dark fans against her cheeks. Lips parted just enough that I can see the wet pink inside. I reach down and drag the pad of my thumb across her bottom lip. Soft. Warm. She doesn’t stir, just sighs–a tiny sound that hits me low in the gut.
My hand keeps moving. I catch the hem of her shirt between two fingers and drag it higher until the fabric bunches under her arms and both breasts are exposed to the cool air.
Tight brown nipples pebble instantly around the metal bars.
Small, perfect, begging to be tugged between teeth.
My cock kicks hard against the zipper of my jeans, thick and aching.
I palm myself through the denim first, a rough squeeze, then shove my hand down the front of my jeans.
I wrap my fist around the length and stroke down, tip to base, letting the precum slick the way.
My breathing turns shallow. Every pass of my hand makes my hips twitch forward, desperate to fuck into something warm.