"Continue. He will bring her in himself."
The carriage rattled on, passing them as though they were insects in the dirt.
The kneeling men did not rise until it was gone, not until the sound of hooves and wheels had faded into silence.
Even then, their limbs trembled, sweat dripping despite the cold.
They exchanged no words. They didn't need to.
The prince himself was in the woods.
And the girl they hunted was already his.
†‡†‡†‡
Aeryl tugged the flap open, her breath coming in shallow, hopeful bursts.
Inside, the tent smelled of mildew and pine, but it was empty, waiting. She exhaled, long and shaky, brushing damp hair from her face.
Maybe… maybe this could work. Just one night of sleep. Just enough to think.
She bent to pull the canvas wider, her fingers fumbling clumsily at the ties.
Myrrh huffed behind her, nosing at the grass, crunching the last of her treats.
"Hold on, Myrrh. You need water after a long ride. Ha."
The forest seemed quiet. Too quiet.
Unbeknownst to her, a figure sat astride a black stallion at the edge of the clearing, half-shrouded in shadow.
The vampire prince.
His posture was easy, relaxed even, but his eyes burned like coals in the dark as he watched her.
The little human thought herself clever, slipping off the path, feeding her beast, setting up camp as though the night did not belong to him.
His nostrils flared with her scent, sweet and maddening—blood, fear, something far rarer pulsing beneath her skin.
The hunger in him sharpened until his jaw tightened.
Still, he did not move.
He watched.
Watched her kneel at the tent, tugging, muttering under her breath like a child comforting herself.
Watched the way her trembling hands betrayed her.
Watched her lips as she bit them raw.
It amused him to let her believe she was safe, if only for a heartbeat longer.
Then—
Snap.
The horse shifted, one iron hoof crushing a fallen branch.
The sound cracked the clearing like thunder.
Aeryl whipped around, the scream tearing from her throat before she could swallow it.
Her satchel tumbled to the dirt as she stumbled back, clutching for the small knife strapped at her belt.
She ripped it free, brandishing the blade with both hands though it shook wildly in her grip. Her chest heaved, her eyes darting into the dark.
"Who's there?" she cried, voice breaking, the knife catching moonlight like a fragile shard of hope.
The stallion stepped forward, parting the shadows.
And then—he came into view.
Tall. Terrifying. His presence seemed to smother the very night, velvet and steel woven into every line of him.
The prince.
Her scream choked into silence.
Her blood remembered him before her mind did.
Aeryl's knuckles whitened around the knife, but her breath betrayed her—fast, ragged, the sound of prey already caught.
The stallion's head tossed, the beast stamping once against the earth, and out of the dark he came.
The prince.
Silver-red eyes gleamed like a wound in the night, fixed on her, piercing straight through her fragile defense.
Her legs trembled. Her stomach turned cold. She couldn't breathe.
"Myrrh!" she sobbed, voice breaking, as the little dog barked madly, his teeth bared at the towering figure.
He inched backward toward her, tail stiff with warning, but his small frame shook with every growl and bark.
"No—no, no, come here, come!" she begged, her voice shrill with terror. She dropped to one knee, reaching, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The pup darted closer, still barking at the stranger.
She seized him in her arms, clutching him to her chest so tightly his paws scrabbled against her gown. Her knife slipped in her grip, clattering uselessly to the ground as she turned on her heel.
Branches whipped her face as she bolted, lungs burning, feet pounding into the dirt.
She didn't think. Didn't plan. Only ran.
Behind her, the forest seemed to pulse with silence. The prince hadn't moved, hadn't called out—only watched her.
His lips curved, slow and cruel.
Let her run. Let her bleed herself in the dark. The chase only sweetens the taste.
The forest tore at her gown as she fled, clutching Myrrh against her chest. Branches lashed her arms, roots clawed at her skirts, but still she ran, sobbing into the dog's fur.
Behind her, the stallion stamped once, twice—and then silence.
She risked a glance over her shoulder.
The rider was gone.
Her heart seized. That was worse than seeing him.
Somewhere back in the clearing, he had dismounted, boots sinking soundless into the forest loam.
He didn't follow with shouts. He didn't crash through the brush like her father's men. He walked. Slow. Deliberate.
A hunter who already knew the outcome.
Aeryl's chest heaved, lungs burning, panic eating through every thought.
She tried to force her legs faster, to push the donkey-path further into the trees, but the ground blurred, her eyes wet with tears.
And all the while, behind her, the presence stalked closer.
Silver-red eyes cutting through the dark.
A hunger that didn't chase.
That hunted.