“Running tells a predator two things.” Her grip tightens. “That you’re prey and that you’re worth chasing.”
Slowly, she releases me.
The market noise swells again, bright and oblivious.
But I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere, in the spaces between sound and shadow, something is listening.
From the corner of my eye, something shifts, a hand, reaching lazily for a bag of tea at the vendor’s counter. I wouldn’t have looked twice, except the sleeves of his coat slide back with the movement, revealing a mark that punches the air from my lungs.
A serpent.
Ink curling up his forearm like it’s alive.
A Viper crest.
My heart stumbles. Everything in me goes still, because Shadeborne scouts bear brands of obedience. But this, this is a mark of rank. Authority.
Slowly, against every shred of instinct screaming at me, I force my gaze upward.
And I meet his eyes.
Not just the eyes this time, not the safe distance of a mask and shadows. His full face is exposed to me under the dim glow of the vendor lanterns. Striking blue, rimmed with gold. Raven-dark curls brushing the sharp lines of his jaw. A mouth that curves into a cruel, impossible smirk. Broad shoulders, relaxed posture, hands steady and sure.
A man built for war wearing the face of temptation.
My breath cuts short. The tea slips from my fingers, hitting the ground with a muted splash. I don’t even register the warmth soaking into my boots. I’m pinned by him, caught in a stare that feels too familiar, too knowing.
And then he steps closer.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hide. His presence is deliberate, a quiet art form, a predator’s patience dressed in casual attire and a long winter coat concealing weapons I can’t count.
A whisper of pressure touches the small of my back.
Not fingers.
Steel.
A knife slides against me with terrifying precision, tracing an idle line through the fabric of my robe as if he’s considering where to cut first.
The vendor notices my flinch. “You all right, dear?”
His answer comes faster than mine ever could.
“Clumsy thing she is,” he murmurs, voice deep, velvety, threaded with amusement. He doesn’t even look at the vendor, his eyes stay locked on me, like I’m the only person in the entire market worth acknowledging. “Harper,” he says softly, too gently, too intentionally, “why don’t you come with me.”
It isn’t a question.
It’s ownership disguised as suggestion.
He nudges the blade lower, enough to remind me he holds the advantage. My hands shake, fingertips trembling against the urge to summon a spell, but my mind can’t focus, can’t breathe, can’t form the shape of magic with him this close. His presence floods everything: sound, air, thought.
“R-Right,” I manage, my voice barely a breath.
He takes that as permission.
His hand clamps around my hip, unyielding, and he steers me away from the safety of the vendor stalls. Away from Sebastian. Away from Liam and Theo’s wandering eyes. Each step presses the blade deeper into my back, guiding, warning, claiming.
We cross the open lane of the market, our footsteps blending with the murmur of shoppers too distracted by autumn lanterns to notice a kidnapping in plain sight.
