She smirks, a wicked little thing, so achingly familiar, so arousing that what little control I have left evaporates.
She knows I’m watching. And she’s playing with me.
This feels like Shadow Stalker all over again. Damn her. Damn me more for loving it.
The wind howls through the maze, rattling the bones of the dead. Somewhere, a terrified woman’s scream cuts short—another hunter claims his bride. I force my gaze away from Florienne’s teasing smile and knock an arrow.
They can try to take her.
But they will have to go through me first.
Chapter 6
Florienne
Lesson 42 from The Vesper’s Guide: Your tears are a weapon to be wielded, not spilled.”
—SCRATCHED OUT ANNOTATION, AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Rain beads on my skin, but it’s not a downpour. It’s a tease—a promise. The Labyrinth walls stretch high above me, dark and slick with moss.
After a few minutes of silence, I stop moving and listen. Feel.
He’s here.
I don’t have to see him to know. The intensity of his gaze is thick, curling around me like a second skin.
The Huntsman is watching. He’s always watching.
I shiver, not from my drenched, thin clothes but from something deeper, something darker. A thrill that should not exist in a place like this.
The first hunter rounds the corner. He is a brutish man with eager hands and dull eyes. He holds his flaming torch high to seeme better. I tilt my head, letting the light catch the glint of my tattoos—the delicate inked script of the feminine mysteries. He hesitates.
“Lost, little bride?” His voice is thick with amusement, with lust. He steps closer, his fingers brushing the hilt of his blade.
I step forward, too, slow and deliberate, like I have all the time in the world. “Not lost. Just waiting for my king.”
He tracks my approach, his wide-eyed gaze dipping to my lips and throat. Men are so predictable. He thinks I’m vulnerable. He all but salivates over it.
My fingers trail down my arm, a subtle, teasing motion, and his breath hitches.
Behind me, unseen, the Huntsman seethes. I know because I feel it in the way the air thickens, the barely leashed violence rolling off him in waves. The man in front of me doesn’t realize he’s already dead.
But I’m not ready for this game to end. I want to torture my stalker some more.
Another step. Another glance. I lift my wet hair from my shoulders, intending to wring it dry, but accidentally-on-purpose catch the shoulder of my flimsy gown.
“Oops,” I giggle and turn to fix myself—facing the Huntsman’s shadowed direction, checking to see if he makes himself known. It’s all shadows and murky mist, but I’m almost sure I hear a growl of frustration, or, perhaps, warning. He doesn’t like me playing with the hunter. When I turn back to him, his fingers twitch on the torch, itching to grab me.
“You want me, don’t you?” I murmur, watching his pupils blow wide as he nods. “Poor thing. You don’t realize I let you get this close. Perhaps if you kneel, swear fealty, I might allow you a small touch.”
A wicked defiance—or thrill—flickers in his gaze. It’s hard to tell at this point.
He growls and reaches for me, but I lift my finger and scold him, “Uh-uh. First, you kneel.”
“How about first, I fuck?—”
A gust of wind, a whisper of steel, and then the man before me is gasping, clawing at the arrow lodged deep in his throat. The torch falls with the man, and I jump back to avoid sparks.
