"Happy hunting," Elian whispered.
He turned and bolted.
It wasn't a graceful retreat. It was a scramble. Elian vaulted over the back of the sofa, his valet boots skidding on the stone floor as he aimed for the bedroom door.
'Rule #1 of Horror Movies,' Elian thought frantically. 'Don't run upstairs. Rule #1 of Romance Novels: Run upstairs so he has to carry you back down.'
He didn't make it to the stairs.
A heavy hand clamped onto the back of his tunic.
"Got you," Cassian growled.
He didn't pull Elian back; he lifted him. Elian's feet left the floor. He was spun around and slammed—not gently—against the rough wooden wall of the lodge.
"That was a short hunt," Cassian murmured, leaning in. He smelled of woodsmoke and pure, unadulterated intent. "You run like a flightless bird."
"I was giving you a head start," Elian panted, his hands instinctively gripping Cassian's biceps. "To build suspense."
