Page 15 of Stalked By Seduction and Shadows

I snorted. My lord. Sweet talking wouldn’t earn him any favors now. Especially when such titles made my skin crawl.

Plus, he was lying. It was a brilliant cover story, though. I had to hand it to Durian, the rising leader of the born, and his henchmen for establishing such a foolproof alibi.

Perhaps some of the mortals that scouts targeted ended up working in born clubs with varying degrees of willingness. But plenty more went straight to auction, and a human like Scarlett… She would’ve been paraded around for months to draw in all the wealthiest, most powerful buyers. Then she would’ve been sold for an exorbitant, showy price.

Countless born would’ve seen her nude. Countless born would’ve seen her new master claim her as his.

And with that infuriating thought, I let my shadows feast, wrapping around the man as he continued to lie and beg. Thorns sliced through skin, releasing his blood back to the earth as he cried out. He choked on it too, gurgling and pleading with his eyes as his life waned.

These weren’t the men I’d get information out of. They were merely low-level operatives, only good for being made into an example, a warning.

Durian might’ve thought that his multiplying underground empire was going unnoticed. Or that I was turning a blind eye.

But I knew as well as the rest of Aristelle that the war had never truly ended. Blatant acts of aggression needed careful planning and foresight, escalation avoided at all costs. For the sake of all of Valentin, mortals and vampires alike. We did not want to provoke the kingdom. That was not a battle the turned nor I were prepared for.

I sunk my teeth into the scout’s neck as he faded, rewarding myself with a nice meal after this shitstorm of a day.

Well, I wouldn’t call the meal nice. The taste of blood reflected a person’s essence, and this guy’s soul was full of shit.

My obsession had taken a turn, and not a good one.

When she was a child, Scarlett was this nameless, innocent embodiment of life itself—ephemeral, confusing, precious, and soulful life. Her lyrical, melodic voice cut through my shields and pulled out my last tendrils of vulnerability. She was the piece of me that had died, the piece I mourned with the other ghosts of Crescent Haven.

Now she was a woman. One with a name—with a sharp tongue, full lips, a body crafted in the heavens or perhaps in hell, and startling blue eyes deep enough to drown in. Though I could watch her body move and hear words leave her mouth, I couldn’t get close enough to peer inside of her.

And that was what I wanted most. I wanted to gaze inside the powerful, haunted, beautiful mind of which I had only ever caught glimpses. I wanted to pry her open and drag her hidden pieces out into the chilly autumn air. I wanted to hold her trauma in my palms and study it, find where the tears began so I could help her mend them. I wanted to know her void and how compatible it was with mine. My pain wanted to flirt with hers. She was so used to manipulating desire, and I wanted her to set her sights on me. I wanted her to become frustrated when I refused to bend and downright terrified when she realized that her heart was the only thing ever truly in danger.

That would be a first for her, and the idea of being her first anything sent a thrill of rapture through my body.

All of this to say, I could never, under any circumstances, know where she and the mutt were going. As I watched them crawl into her bed from outside her window, her poor, shivering body trembling in his arms, I said my last goodbye.

Live, Little Flame. If you can survive what you have and still burn this blindingly, I have no doubt you will lead a life worthy of immortalization. Not the kind that has killed and buried my soul—but the kind that lives on with your children and ancestors in spoken word, or ink on pages that make it to strangers across the realm.

Live. Burn. And never, ever, let them dim your fucking light.

8

SCARLETT

When I awoke, I stretched my arms out before opening my eyes. When my fingertips grazed skin, I jolted up.

Jaxon was next to me, stretched out and face-down on my second pillow. Blissed and peaceful, curly dark hair barely tousled.

My eyes blew wide, and I quickly touched my palms to the oversized shirt covering my body. I wasn’t wearing underwear.

And Jaxon was here. In my bed. And I had no idea why.

Did I drink last night? Wait no, I didn’t drink. Not anymore. I couldn’t afford not to be completely alert and in control at all times. What was Jaxon doing in my bed, then? Why? How? What?

“Did we?” I squeaked, waking him up with a start.

“Huh?”

“Did. We?”

Jaxon stared at me, slowly rolling over. He blinked once. Twice. Then he howled with laughter, his eyes crinkling as he nearly choked on his own amusement.

He’d slept over before, but I usually, you know, wore pants.

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