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I raise my eyebrows. "So you've never...?"
"I didn't say that." He pushes off from the wall, stepping closer until he looms over me. "But she doesn't own me. And she knows it. Andyouwere the one I was buried deep inside last night." His finger traces the line of my jaw. "Does that satisfy your curiosity?"
It doesn't, but I nod anyway, fighting the urge to lean into his touch. I have no claim on him, and I need to remember that. No matter what happened last night.
It'll happen many more times, and I cannot afford for my heart to get wrapped up in this. He asked for real, but I can't let it get too real.
10
VAEL
Itrack the satyr through Aerasak's eastern forest, following the distinctive cloven prints stamped in red soil. Three days I've been after this mark—Markos Silvershod, wanted for theft of magical artifacts from Ti'lith's central archives. Worth fifteen nodals to the right client.
The forest canopy filters the crimson sunlight into dappled shadows. Perfect hunting conditions. I keep low, moving with the deliberate stealth that's kept me alive for thirty-seven years. The metal hilts of my twin daggers press comfortably against my lower back, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice.
A branch snaps somewhere ahead. I freeze, listening.
This satyr has eluded other hunters for weeks. But they weren't me.
I creep forward, scanning the metallic foliage. Through a break in the trees, I spot movement—a flash of furry hindquarters, the nervous flick of a tail. Got him.
I circle wide, positioning myself to cut off his most likely escape route. As I move, unbidden thoughts of Trinity slip into my mind—the way her green eyes had widened when she'dfirst seen my home, how her small hand had felt in mine. The memory of her beneath me, her soft cries as I?—
Focus, idiot.
I shake my head, irritated at my own distraction. This has been happening since I brought her home. Five days, and I can't seem to go more than an hour without her invading my thoughts. It's... inconvenient.
The satyr pauses in a small clearing ahead, his humanoid torso tense as he surveys his surroundings. His curved horns catch the light as he turns his head. He's nervous. Good.
I slide forward silently, calculating distance and timing. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
When I'm close enough to smell the musky scent of his fur, I deliberately step on a dry twig.
He whirls, eyes wild. "Who's there?"
I rise from my crouch, letting him see me fully. "Markos Silvershod."
The satyr's face contorts with recognition and fear. "Vaelrix."
My reputation precedes me. "The archives want their artifacts back."
"I sold them." His eyes dart between me and the thick brush to his left—his planned escape route. "Weeks ago."
I shrug one shoulder. "Not my problem. The bounty doesn't specify condition upon delivery."
He bolts for the brush, exactly as I anticipated. I'm on him in three strides, driving my shoulder into his midsection. We crash to the forest floor, leaves and twigs crunching beneath our combined weight.
The satyr fights with desperate strength, hooves kicking wildly, hands clawing at my face. I catch one flailing arm and twist it behind his back, pressing my knee between his shoulder blades.
"You'll break my arm!" he gasps.
I increase the pressure. "Probably."
As I secure him with enchanted bindings around his wrists and ankles, I notice the fading light. Night will fall soon. We'll need shelter.
"Move," I command, hauling him to his feet.
We make our way through the darkening forest, the satyr stumbling ahead of me. I shove him forward when he slows, my patience wearing thin.