Page 1 of The Hunt
1
THEODORE
I can scent her arousal.
This decadent perfume is kissed by cherries and vanilla with the sensual tang of her blood. It calls to me with its heady and rich notes, the melody drawing a map only I can follow.
A private siren’s song. Only mine.
It coils around me, sinking its claws into my restraint, and my fangs drop. They tear through my flesh as my nostrils flare and my tongue swipes across the sharp incisors?—
She giggles.
Indulgently. In anticipation.
Because my pretty girl knows.
Tonight is a sacred night for our kind, a celebration for most, but for me, it’s a sacred honor.
Every Hallows’ Eve, I give in to nature’s demand that I hunt.
A tradition I never paid attention to. Never heeded its call…until her.
My mate. My queen.
Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply while picking up the slightest noise. There’s the chime of an old grandfather clock she loves and I hate, the raking of a branch across a window—my head shifts in the direction of the stairs where her delicate footfalls seem to be in a rush.
I’ll give her efforts a passing grade, but we both know it’s useless.
“Motherfucking adorable,” I croon, counting slowly from one to thirty before opening my blood-red eyes again. I’m nothing if not generous. “I’m coming for you, pretty girl.”
The corridors are silent except for the low hum of chandeliers, their gold filigree dripping shadows across black marble floors. My subjects have already fled the royal ground, heeding my warning. They know what tonight means. Know and accept that for her, I will kill.
I’ve done much worse over the last century without remorse or hesitation, and they expect nothing less from their king.
Gabriella Astor is in every stone of this castle, her scent embedded in the woven tapestries and linens—in me. She’s mine to protect, to cherish, to ruin if I wish—she’s my world.
Always has been. Always will be.
Licking my bottom lip, I catch traces of her wetness in the air surrounding me. The tethers of her magic and arousal lash across my senses as a snarl tears loose from my throat. The echoes of it vibrate against the wall like thunder rolling through a gothic cathedral, booming and ominous as I take my first step in her direction.
Because the beast in me wants to play.
Show her who she belongs to. Who’s worthy of owning her.
“Run, little witch.” As if she heard me, my pretty girl laughs and dances ahead, the sound high and wicked. The sound feeds me. Her scent also sharpens. It’s sweeter, thicker, and intoxicating in a way nothing else will ever be. No blood or cunt will ever satisfy or soothe this demon.
Another five steps, and something flies by my shoulder, crashing into the dark walls behind me. On impact, it shatters into small crystal shards, pinging off skin it will never damage.
Bad girl baiting her mate.
Reckless little witch.
I picture the gleam in her eyes as she runs barefoot through my castle, wearing nothing but a thin satin slip the color of midnight. Dark. Soft. Barely there. The fabric shifts with her movements, accentuating every dip and curve—her perky breasts and soft thighs—that I’ll mark with my bite before the sun greets the sky in a few short hours.
“I can scent your arousal, pretty girl,” I call out, voice low and amused as the words slide along the walls until they reach her. And when they do, her soft gasp is my reward, a beautiful little tell she tries to smother and fails, forgetting that sound belongs to me.
Her moans. Her pleas. Her cries.
