Page 21 of The Hunt
The faucet shuts off, and his footsteps shuffle closer; I swiftly put the phone down before snuggling deeper under the covers. I’m excited. My core clenches and wings want to unfurl—stretch, before taking flight, so I can burn off some of this nervous energy—but I slow down my breathing instead.
If Leo realizes I’m awake, he doesn’t call me out on it. Maybe because he thinks I’m trying to fall back to sleep. Instead, he walks over to the bed, leans down, presses a kiss to my forehead, and pats my ass twice. My mate heads to the door, sweat towel in his hand, and pauses in the threshold—voice warm and warning.
“Behave, precious one.”
The door shuts, and my lips curl into a little smirk.
My king is in for a very big surprise.
9
LEONARDO
The family home shouldn’t be this quiet.
Not on this night. Not under a full moon, blessed for the hunt.
Tonight isn’t about mortal costumes and candy. For our kind, All Hallows’ Eve is instinct and hunger—when bonded mates run free and chase to remember the first claim. One flees, one hunts, and when they meet, the world stands still. It’s not a tradition, it’s our nature remembering itself.
And may the Gods help anyone who comes between us tonight.
Walking up the stairs, I keep my steps light as I enter our bedroom, but it’s empty.
The entire house seems to be.
Soft light glows along the walls, sconces dimmed low while shadows stretch long across polished wood. The air hums. It’s charged, a little frantic, and tastes faintly of her.
Fae magic. Wild and sweet and impossible to miss.
My wife. My precious one.
Inhaling deep, I try to find her, but something else is calling to me. Stronger—it yanks me in the opposite direction, back to the first floor and to my office. The sanctum’s door is open, and the moment I step through, my head snaps toward the floor-to-ceiling bookcase against the opposite wall.
All of my titles have been turned with the spine facing inward, so all I see are page edges.
Then, there’s the wand Gabriella got me as a gag gift a few years ago from some TV-show-based magic shop sitting next to a hand-painted little ghost my mate picked up on the same outing. Both are on the wrong shelf, mixed in with plants instead of mementos I keep among thrillers I like to re-read when I want something entertaining and human.
My half annoyance, half amusement dies when my runes stir beneath my skin—heat rolling, power tingling low in my spine. Bad little fae. She touched one of my anchors.
Walking to my desk, I scan the tray holding a total of six runes, one for each pillar of my magic. The obsidian calming stone is missing, the physical pillar that amplifies and steadies the power flowing through my veins. She didn’t take from my flesh; Anaya stole the piece that thrums and flows with it.
Those stones are tied to me, to my control. They ground me when emotions rise and anchor my coven when they look to their king to steady the chaos. I use them to help me guide, to calm, to teach—especially young witches who haven’t learned how to bend magic to their will.
Fuck, my precious one. This is going to cost you.
She literally took my composure—what cements rationality versus unrestrained emotion.
This was deliberate and methodical. She took advantage of my day out on the field with our army; training took longer than expected, and then my meeting with a coven leader needing assistance went well into the evening.
When the king is away, the naughty fae will plan.
The air stirs, faint fae glamour brushing my senses, her magic stretching against my skin. Something else Anaya’s done on purpose. Like a kiss meant to provoke, her message is loud and clear:
Come and find me.
I exhale slowly, a smirk curling at my lips. “Silly girl. I know what you want.”
She wants me off-center. She wants the hunt to be real, not symbolic.
