He just needed to control himself until that happened.
* * *
Declan was halfway home,the wind whipping through his black locks as he raced down the motorway on his Harley. He loved the sense of freedom the bike gave him. He couldn’t die—not from something aspedestrianas a vehicular crash, so he rode without a helmet, only a pair of goggles to protect his eyes. The roar of an approaching car cut through the dull hum of the wind in his ears, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.
With a quick glance over his shoulder, he cursed under his breath. The car’s headlights were off, and it was gaining on him. He sped up, and as he looked back again, the driver’s side window rolled down, and a long barrel extended.
“Fuck me,” Declan bit out and veered off the motorway. He had one advantage over the Hunter. He knew these country roads like no one else. Knew the twists and turns, the potholes, the hills and valleys where he could pull off and hide.
Flicking off the headlight on his motorcycle, he opened up the throttle and pushed the bike to its limit.
The first shot whizzed by his left ear. The second grazed his left arm. Fire licked up his shoulder. Silver. Not that he was surprised. Blood soaked his sleeve. It was not a mortal wound. But it would weaken him quickly.
His first turn sent rocks flying. The car managed to navigate the ninety-degree bend in the road without losing much momentum at all, and Declan cursed the Hunter in his native Gaelic.
Squinting in the total darkness—not even a moon visible in the inky black sky tonight—he let his lips curve into a thin smile. “You want to play, Hunter? I will show you how it is done.”
Planting his foot as he jerked the bike around a curve so tight, he almost flew right off the seat, he kicked up more dust. But this time, he didn’t care if he made the turn. Rather, he pushed the bike harder, right through a thin section of a three-meter-tall hedge.
The branches cut his cheeks, his forehead, and his hands, but he’d heal quickly. Another two quick turns, and he was halfway down a deep valley, and the sounds of twisting metal reached his sensitive ears.
Easing the bike to a stop, he scanned the rise behind him. An orange glow lit the top of the hills, and as he stilled, he made out the crackle of a fire and a weak groan.
He should kill the Hunter. Use his enhanced speed to reach the arse and drain him. But he knew—better than most—the deception the Hunters often employed to capture and kill their prey. For all he knew, the Hunter had purposely crashed his car.
His arm burned. Feeding off the Hunter would restore his strength. But it would also sever the connection he had with Riley, and though it would take him many hours to heal without a few sips of human blood, he found himself unwilling to lose that connection just yet.
Revving the bike’s engine, he shook his head. “You may live this night, Hunter. Do not make me regret my decision.”
By the time he arrived home, he expected to find the wound red and swollen, his entire sleeve soaked with blood. But as he pulled off his shirt, he stared. The scar was at least an inch long and a half an inch wide, but it was disappearing quickly—too quickly.
Silver was one of the few things that could kill him. True, it had to hit his torso or head to do so quickly, but even a single graze like this could be fatal, for his body should continue to bleed until he fed or cleansed any remnants of the lethal metal from the wound.
This…was unexpected. Of course, hehadjust fed a few hours ago. But even that should not have healed him.
“Riley Scott…perhaps there is more to your blood than its delicious taste.” Declan wondered if he should try to contact her again. Or see her. “No. I have already risked too much for a human.” Declan poured himself a generous splash of whiskey and headed for his library. Perhaps a few hours with Tolstoy would remove the last vestiges of this obsession with Dr. Riley Scott.
