Page 17 of The Midnight Death Match

Bored.

Rage burns in my chest, but I keep it in check. “Of course I care, Leif. You’re my brother.”

“You’re more worried about sweet, little Runa and the others. You don’t care about me. Never have.”

“That isn’t true!”

Harek rests a hand on my arm.

I take a deep breath. “I’ve always cared about all of you. We’re family.”

“Always?” my brother sneers. “You’ve treatedhimmore like family than any of us. Now I’ve figured out why.”

For a moment I think he’s going to talk about my feelings for Harek, but he goes in a different direction. “It’s the pack. You care more about them and all your fae connections.”

“What do you know about my fae connections?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can process them.

My brother smirks.

Harek squeezes my arm. “Eira?—”

I cut him off, my attention on Leif. “What do you know about me?”

“Enough.”

Everything takes on a red hue. Does he know about me being the Secret Keeper? About our mother holding that role before me? Or does he think it’s all about the hunter line only?

“The world’s already burning, Eira.” His voice drips like syrup. “And you lit the match. You think the fae will protect you? Thathewill protect you?” He jerks his chin toward Harek. “They’ll turn on you the moment you stop being useful.”

“Neither of us is turning on our family.”

“No?” Leif says. “You’re dragging them into a war they can’t win. And I won’t let you.”

His meaning sinks in, and my blood goes cold.

“You’d expose them as werewolves.”

“If I have to.” He shrugs. “Better they’re hated than dead.”

He starts to turn away.

“I won’t let you do this!”

Leif glances over his shoulder. “You’re not the only one who knows how to survive, Eira. Don’t forget who my father is or the damage he’s done. And he’s only human. Think of whatIcould do.”

He vanishes into the trees like a shadow returning to its master.

Chapter

Eight

IN THE TEMPLE RUINS

The air is colderthan it should be. Crumbled stone walls barely protect the flickering flame at the center of a carved obsidian basin. Seven chairs now form a semicircle around it—none identical, all worn by time and power.

Instead of three cloaked figures, there are nine. One leans forward, gloved fingers steepled. “The huntress has not slowed her rise.”

Another taps a blade on her knee, disinterested. “She has already fractured one bloodline. The rest will follow.”