On the Hunt (Sentinel Wars #3.5)(4)
Author: Gena Showalter

Would she or wouldn’t she?

Would he be there or not?

In the twelve months since meeting Vasili, she’d had time to build him up and tear him down.

Romanticize and vilify him. She’d had time to accept what had happened and rationalize what couldn’t possibly have happened.

After his parting words, she must have slipped into a deep sleep, because the next thing she’d known, she’d woken up in the hospital, groggy and incoherent, her parents frantic. She hadn’t responded to their morning knock or subsequent shaking, so they’d called 911.

The doctors claimed she’d suffered from a drug overdose, though they hadn’t been able to identify the drug. Clearly, Vasili had slipped something into the wine he’d forced her to drink.

Bastard.

Four minutes.

Something had happened to her that night. Something besides the drugging. In the weeks that followed, she’d tried to move on with her life. Tried to forget. Only, everything had changed. She’d been irritable, hungry, aching unbearably, unable to focus or sleep. Her parents had tried to talk to her, and at first, she resisted. But finally she’d broken down and hinted at what she’d seen. They told her she’d hallucinated. She insisted. They asked her if she was stilll using. She really insisted, giving them every single detail.

They had her committed.

Upon her release, she’d begun searching online for others like her, desperate to prove herself sane. What she found shocked her. There were others like her, and their experiences matched her own. Their description of the world—Nightmare, they called it—matched, too.

Sometimes people "stepped over" and never returned, she’d been told, and the other Dimension Walkers suspected the monsters had butchered them. Which was why they were looking for ways to sever the "birthday bond." So far, no luck.

She’d spent so much time researching, she’d failed to enroll in college. She hadn’t gotten an apartment with Claire, either. And Hoyt . . . The first time he’d kissed her upon her return, she’d begun to sicken. And the more his tongue had twined with hers, the sicker she’d felt—until she’d finally had to pull away altogether. Miraculously, she’d felt better an instant later.

Still. She’d assumed she had caught a virus. Until he tried to kiss her a few days later. That time, there’d been no warning. She’d jerked away, her body wanting no part of him, and vomited.

A few days later, she’d tried to kiss him, hopeful, perhaps desperate to make things work. But once more, she’d vomited.

There’d been no fooling herself after that.

And there’d been no keeping him. He’d moved on, leaving her brokenhearted. For a few months, at least. Eventually, she’d gotten over him and tried to move on herself. That ache . . .

Then a new guy had finally caught her eye. Nick. Handsome, sweet, with blond hair and brown eyes—she now avoided guys with dark hair and light eyes because they made the ache so much worse—and, best of all, six foot one and a Dimension Walker.

Three minutes.

Everyone used fake names online, but after trading war stories with Nick, she’d given him her phone number. Their first date had been amazing. They’d understood each other, talked, laughed, connected. He’d walked her to her door, and she’d hugged him, once again hopeful for the future.

Until their second date. He’d walked her to her door, and that time, she’d tried to kiss him.

Immediately, her stomach had threatened to rebel. She’d jerked away and barricaded herself inside. She’d avoided his calls ever since.

The only time she left the house anymore was to train. Guns, knives, hand-to-hand combat, just as Vasili had instructed. She would never be so helpless again.

Two minutes.

A cold sweat beaded over her skin. Each minute seemed to tick by faster than the last.

Would she even see Vasili this go-round? According to her sources, she would land in a different place every time she traveled.

One minute.

Rose stopped breathing, stood. Steady. She had a semiautomatic stashed in the waist of her pants, extra clips in her pockets, blades sheathed inside her boots, killer barrettes in her hair, and an innocent-looking pen strapped to her thigh. That pen was actually a syringe filled with enough sedative to knock out an elephant.

Kill as many of those monsters as you can, so many Walkers advised. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, unless they threatened her. Vasili, though . . . she owed him.

Twelve o’clock.

Would she—

In a single heartbeat, the world around her vanished, a new one taking its place. Indigo walls were replaced with the white fabric of a tent, and her bed and desk with furred rugs. This time, there wasn’t a table. Not even a single chair. The books and tub were gone, too. There was only open space and that fur. And rather than a crackling fire, torches hung along the walls.

But she’d landed in Vasili’s tent. She knew it.

"Well, well, well. The mouse took my advice and armed herself like a lion. I’m impressed."

Rose nearly swallowed her tongue as she spun. And there he was, golden lamplight caressing him. The dark prince of her nightmares. He hadn’t changed. Same inky hair, though the strands were now wet and slicked back, and same feralleyes. Same imposing height and muscled width.

Same haunting beauty.

Just as before, he clutched a glass of liquid amber and ice, sipping as he studied her. He wore a black shirt that hugged his massive biceps, and black pants that were ripped and stained with . . . blood?

"Forgive my appearance, darling." Oh, sweet heaven. There was his seductive purr, all magic and moonlight, shivering over her. "I had to race to get here."

Her gaze snapped up, and his lips lifted in a slow, sensual smile, revealing those perfect teeth.

Her heart finally kicked back into motion, fluttering wildly against her ribs. He’s a self-professed murderer. Don’t forget.

But, God, he’s gorgeous.

Concentrate!

I’m trying, damn it. But already the ache, that constant, cloying, demanding ache, had sprouted wings.

"What? Nothing to say? Well, no matter. I’m not done talking. Happy birthday, darling. You’re a stunning nineteen. Almost a woman."

The mocking tone hadn’t changed, either.

"Did you do as I asked?" A casual question. "Did you search for others?"

"Yes. I did. And you were right. There really were others like me."

He stiffened. "Their names. Tell me." No longer casual, but almost . . . desperate.

"I didn’t get them," she lied. The only name she had was Nick’s, and she wasn’t sharing that.

The hand at Vasili’s side fisted.

Attack him before he attacks you. She merely shifted from one foot to the other, glaring over at him. Too well did she recall how he’d frozen her in place. And she would learn how he did that—and how to combat it. "Plan to kill me now?"