Page 43 of Huntsman

I give my head a hard shake.

What in the fuck just happened?

Fury at Eshe, at my damn self, swirls through me like a Category 5 storm. Fuck stealth. I plow through the bodies in front of me, following in her wake.

Fuck Eshe Diallo. My fingers flex, stretch, curl again. Feeling the frantic flutter of her pulse under my hands as I imagine slowly tightening my grip on the slender column of her throat.

She played the wrong muthafucka—

The blast erupts through the warehouse like a rampaging dragon, heat and a great clap of sound rolling through the space. I fly, but my fall is cushioned by the crush of bodies beneath me. For a moment, I lie there, the screams and cries assaulting my ears.

“No.”

The word rips from my chest, lost in the chaos around me. After launching to my feet, I jump over the prone bodies littering the floor, dodge people not laid out by the bomb, knocking more out of the way.

Where the fuck is she?

Shit.

Fuck.Gotdamn.

Blood, the meaty scent of burning flesh, and black, cloying smoke choke the air. Jerking the collar of my hoodie over my nose and mouth, I ignore the ringing in my head, the aches and throbbing of my battered frame.

She was in the path of the blast. But she can’t be. No. Fuck no. She can’t be… There.

A knee-high boot. A leather-encased thigh.

The dogpile of bloody, soot-stained, motionless bodies covers the rest of the petite frame, but I’d recognize it anywhere.

The blood in my veins ices over, and I stop several feet away, an unmoving statue in a roiling sea of madness.

Somebody’s going to die.

Painfully. Slowly.

Badly.

And I’m going to enjoy every fucking second of it.

I stare at the steady rise and fall of her chest.

It’s been seventeen hours, and Eshe still hasn’t woken up.

Maybe I should slap the shit out of her, I contemplate, biting into my slice of cheese, mushroom, and onion pizza. It’d hurt, butall this sleep can’t be healthy either. She should’ve been awake by now.

I snort, shaking my head as I swallow, then take another huge bite. Stretching one arm across the top of the chair I’m straddling, I tip forward, balancing on the back legs. By all rights, I should’ve left Eshe in the rubble of Elysian. It would’ve made more sense than bringing her ass to one of my safe houses. Especially since, thanks to her and her fucking aunt, I can’t go back to my main home. Logic screams that leaving her in that underground club would’ve solved one of my problems.

I’m quickly realizing logic and Eshe Diallo don’t occupy the same space when it comes to me.

Because what fucking sense does it make to dig her out from under that pile of bodies, carry her out of what was left of that warehouse, bring her here, and personally tend to her wounds, only to turn around and kill her?

Yeah, I should’ve left her ass there.

Malachi. The Huntsman… You’re both mine.

Glaring at her, I toss the crust toward the grease-stained box and rise from the chair, the legs hitting the floor.

Slapping her sounds like a better and better idea.