He’d been standing over me, smoking, his expression unreadable.
“Don’t talk,” he’d said before I could even ask what happened. “Listen.”
I’d listened.
“Hunters will come for you if they find out what you are. They’re trained to kill our kind before you even open your mouth. If you see one, you run. You don’t argue. You don’t fight unless you have to. You don’t beg. Understand?”
I’d nodded, my throat raw, tears stinging my eyes.
“Good,” he’d said. “Good luck. Try to survive a little longer. You’re one of my more successful experiments.”
Then, just like that, he’d left. No goodbye, no instructions, and no help. I hadn’t seen him since.
I’d tried to hold onto his words like a map through the dark, but right now that map was useless, because there was no running. The hunter stood between me and the door.
Even if I did make it past him, he’d find me again. I had a feeling he was relentless.
He hadn’t spoken since he’d punched the wall. Just stood there, chest heaving, blood dripping slowly from his knuckles. His knife gleamed faintly in his other hand.
He looked… tired.
Not just physically, though that too. There were dark circles under his eyes, shoulders tense in a way that looked like pain. However, there was something else in his face when he finally looked at me again.
Something that made my stomach twist. Not hatred. Not exactly. Something softer. Sadder.
It was gone almost as soon as I noticed it, shuttered behind the familiar hardness hunters wore like armor. Maybe I’d imagined it. Probably. My sire had told me hunters were cold, efficient, merciless.
This one looked like a man who’d lost something. Then again, it didn’t matter. He’d attacked me first.
My arm still throbbed from where the knife had grazed it, the burn sharp and angry. I could feel the wound trying to knit itself closed, too slow because I hadn’t fed properly in days.
The world tilted faintly, the edges blurring. If I didn’t do something soon, I’d be too weak to even stand. It was be killed or… well, not kill, but hurt him. Just enough to get away.
My gaze darted around the room, desperate. The place was full of garbage. Old furniture, broken bottles, and dust thick enough to choke on.
I finally spotted a chair by the wall, one of its legs half-broken but still solid enough to use. I moved slowly, not wanting to draw his attention.
But hunters weren’t stupid, even drunk ones. His head snapped toward me the moment I shifted.
“Don’t,” he said.
The single word froze me mid-step.
His voice was low, rough, with the kind of weight that came from too much regret. It wasn’t a threat, but a warning. Like he didn’t actually want to do what came next.
But I didn’t have a choice.
I lunged for the chair, grabbed one of the legs, and swung. The motion was clumsy. I wasn’t strong enough yet and not fast enough either, but the leg caught him across the shoulder.
He grunted, staggering back a step, then moved faster than I could follow. The next thing I knew, he’d slammed me against the wall.
The impact knocked the air out of me. The chair leg clattered to the floor. I struggled, instinct taking over. My hands went for his wrist, for the knife still poised near my chest.
He was stronger, his grip iron around my arm. My fingers scraped against his coat, found the edge of his collar, felt the heat of his skin beneath.
He smelled like smoke, whiskey, and metal. Like storms. I shoved at him, but he didn’t move.
“Stop,” he growled, voice close enough that I felt it in my bones.
