She turned, and her eyes met Hunt’s again—a new sort of vulnerability shining beneath the self-satisfied narrowing. A challenge thrown down. Waiting to see how he’d react.
How many males had run from this part of her, their alphahole egos threatened by it? Hunt hated them all merely for putting the question in her eyes.
He didn’t hear whatever shit Flynn was saying as he put on the earmuffs and eye gear and took up the rifle Bryce had set down, the metal still warm from her body. He didn’t hear Ruhn asking him something as he lined up his shot.
No, Hunt only met Bryce’s stare as he clicked off the safety.
That click reverberated between them, loud as a thunderclap. Her throat bobbed.
Hunt pulled his gaze from hers and fired one round. With his eagle-sharp vision, he didn’t need the scope to see the bullet pass through the hole she’d made.
When he lowered the gun, he found Bryce’s cheeks flushed, her eyes like warm whiskey. A quiet sort of light shone in them.
He still didn’t hear any of what the males were saying, only had the vague notion of even Ruhn cursing with appreciation. Hunt just held Bryce’s stare.
I see you, Quinlan, he silently conveyed to her. And I like all of it.
Right back at you, her half smile seemed to say.
Hunt’s phone rang, dragging his eyes from the smile that made the floor a little uneven. He fished it from his pocket with fingers that were surprisingly shaky. Isaiah Tiberian flashed on the screen. He answered instantly. “What’s up?”
Hunt knew Bryce and the Fae males could hear every word as Isaiah said, “Get your asses over to Asphodel Meadows. There’s been another murder.”
37
“Where?” Hunt demanded into the phone, one eye on Quinlan, her arms crossed tight as she listened. All that light had vanished from her eyes.
Isaiah told him the address. A good two miles away. “We’ve got a team already setting up camp,” the commander said.
“We’ll be there in a few,” Hunt answered, and hung up.
The three Fae males, having heard as well, began packing their gear with swift efficiency. Well trained. Total pains in his ass, but they were well trained.
But Bryce fidgeted, hands twitching at her sides. He’d seen that stark look before. And the fake-ass calm that crept over her as Ruhn and his friends glanced at her.
Then, Hunt had bought into it, essentially bullied her into going to that other murder scene.
Hunt said without looking at the males, “I take it you heard the address.” He didn’t wait for any of them to confirm before he ordered, “We’ll meet you there.” Quinlan’s eyes flickered, but Hunt didn’t take his focus off her as he walked closer. He sensed Danaan, Flynn, and Emmet leaving the gallery, but didn’t look to confirm as he halted before her.
The cold emptiness of the sniper range yawned around them.
Again, Quinlan’s hands curled, fingers wiggling at her sides. Like she could shake the dread and pain away. Hunt said calmly, “You want me to handle it?”
Color crept over her freckled cheeks. She pointed to the door with a shaking finger. “Someone died while we were dicking around tonight.”
Hunt wrapped his hand around her finger. Lowered it to the space between them. “This guilt isn’t on you. It’s on whoever is doing this.”
People like him, butchering in the night.
She tried to yank her finger back, and he let go, remembering her wariness of male Vanir. Of alphaholes.
Bryce’s throat bobbed, and she peered around his wing. “I want to go to the scene of the crime.” He waited for the rest of it. She blew out an uneven breath. “I need to go,” she said, more to herself. Her foot tapped on the concrete floor, in time to the beat of the still-thumping music. She winced. “But I don’t want Ruhn or his friends seeing me like this.”
“Like what?” It was normal, expected, to be screwed up by what she’d endured.
“Like a fucking mess.” Her eyes glowed.
“Why?”
“Because it’s none of their business, but they’ll make it their business if they see. They’re Fae males—sticking their noses into places they don’t belong is an art form for them.”
Hunt huffed a laugh. “True.”
She exhaled again. “Okay,” she murmured. “Okay.” Her hands still shook, as if her bloody memories swarmed her.
It was instinct to take her hands in his own.
They trembled like glasses rattling on a shelf. Felt as delicate, even with the slick, clammy sweat coating them.