Page 149 of Hunted By Fae

I throw my wild glare up at the net.

Emily is twisted around, the torch tucked under a boot at the bottom of the net.

Her wet eyes alight as our gazes connect.

She points down to the ground.

I frown at her, then slowly turn my gaze to the icy road between my legs. The shotgun rests there, the barrel delicately leaning on the side-mirror protruding from the car.

It’s not what Emily is pointing at.

I brush my gaze over the serrated knife on the road. I must have dropped it before I fell over the side of the car, and the shotgun tumbled with me.

My heart flips through my chest.

Emily might be pointing at the knife, a silent plea for me to pass it to her, but every second I spare on her is time I leave Tesni at risk.

I move for the shotgun.

Slowly, I draw my boots closer to the curve of my bum, then lean my weight forward.

I catch the gun before it can slip off the mirror—and I bring the butt to press into my shoulder.

I rise from the narrow wedge between the cars, gun aimed. My steps are slow and cautious around the car—but as I move, Tesni comes into view.

I don’t know what I expected. If the dark male would have his hand fisted in Tesni’s throat or her beating heart thumping on his palm.

But he is just… crouched in front of her.

Their gazes are locked, Tesni’s eyes dancing with tears, the same that streak down her raw cheeks and tremble on her parted lips.

Frozen in fear.

Like I was.

But not now.

I press the barrel to the nape of his neck.

The dark male tenses, the slightest tension that ripples beneath his leathers—

I speak his language, “I know your kind. I know your weaknesses. And we both know, if I shoot you right here—it is fatal.”

I don’t lie.

I don’t know a lot of ways to kill a dark fae.

It’s not like taking down a human. The anatomies are not the same. Those slight differences, organs sheeted in extra layers of protection, more muscles, stronger muscles, more bones, stronger bones, hearts in the other side of the chest—but this spot right here, the press of the barrel into the nape of this one’s neck, that will blow his spinal cord to pieces.

He knows it, too.

He stays crouched.

The blonde of his hair pales to the shade of snow in the harsh torchlight; the strands glimmer as, slowly, he turns to touch his chin to his shoulder.

Dark lashes lower over his eyes, casting shadows down to his tense jaw.

His voice is an added chill to the air nipping at me, as though the ice itself intensifies with his threat, “Your friend will suffer the consequences.”