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Close.

Mine.

The carved handle is familiar in my grip, like it’s been waiting. Like it belongs.

Armand lunges, trying to beat me to it, but I’m faster. I rise with the blade in my hand and dancer’s grace in my blood. He reaches for me, fingers grazing my arm–but I catch the cuff of his shirt, twist it, hold him just long enough.

Our eyes lock.

Dark.

Malicious.

I drive the blade forward.

Hot blood arcs, splattering my skin. He gasps, a wet gurgle that bubbles and flails. His hands clutch his throat, eyes wide, disbelieving. I tear the blade free, the fabric ripping under my fingers.

He collapses sideways, slumping into the forest floor. My breath comes ragged and deep, like I’ll never get enough air again. I’m still holding the knife in one hand. A scrap of his shirt in the other. They’re both soaked. Both mine. Both binding me to this moment.

It would be so easy to slip away.

Periwinkle.

But I’m not alone. From the shadows, a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Drop the knife.”

I freeze. Turn toward it.

A figure steps forward. Calm. Tall. Watchful.

“You’re not going to outrun us,” he says, chest rising and falling. Dark ink on his pale skin teases from beneath his shirt collar. Flaxen hair curls at his temples, just above the cut of his mask. “You’ve already been caught.”

Two of them now. One with a bow already drawn–silent, focused. Both with their faces half-covered, jawbone and teeth etched in white.

I shift the blade toward them, even though my arms tremble. The blood on the knife has dried tacky. I’ve already killed one man tonight.

But he deserved it.

He broke the rules.

Now I’m surrounded. Two against one. There’s no more forest to vanish into. No more magic left to summon.

The knife slips from my fingers, lands in the dirt with a dull thud.

The Hunt is over.

I’ve been caught.

4

Hunter

With his arrow still nocked,Damon walks over and picks up the knife. My chest rises and falls with every breath. I didn’t know what to expect when I followed the other two men in the forest, but it certainly wasn’t this.

I circle around Armand, his blood now one with the forest floor, and nudge him with my boot. The body shifts lifelessly and I squat, fingers searching for a pulse. His skin is warm, but I don’t find one. Not a surprise considering the pool of blood that came from the wound on his throat. Whatever happened, we just missed it. “He’s dead.”

If I expect some kind of reaction from the girl, I don’t get it.