Chapter 9: The Hunter Who Found Them
The door slammed behind them.
The sound cracked through the empty building like a gunshot.
Isla spun, heart leaping into her throat.
The place they had stumbled into was an abandoned printing house—rusted machines, torn tarps, the smell of oil and wet paper. Rain leaked through the broken roof in slow, echoing drips.
Rafe was already moving.
He pulled her back against him, one arm braced across her chest as his eyes swept the shadows.
"Don't speak," he murmured near her ear.
Her breath tangled. His body was warm, solid—too real in a night that felt like a nightmare.
Footsteps echoed.
Not rushed.
Not panicked.
Deliberate.
Someone wanted them to hear.
A figure stepped into the faint glow of a hanging bulb.
A man in a dark coat, rain glistening on his shoulders, a faint smile touching his mouth.
"You run beautifully," the stranger said. "Most people don't."
Isla's pulse hammered.
Rafe shifted, placing himself fully in front of her.
"Walk away," he said.
The man chuckled. "You know I can't."
His gaze slid past Rafe.
And locked onto Isla.
Something in his eyes made her stomach twist.
Recognition.
Interest.
Hunger.
"There you are," he said softly. "Do you have any idea how many cities whispered your name before you finally bled into mine?"
Isla's fingers curled into Rafe's jacket.
"Who are you?" she demanded, surprising herself with the steadiness of her voice.
The man inclined his head. "A collector. And you, Isla Moreno, are the rarest thing I've ever hunted."
Rafe's jaw tightened.
"She doesn't belong to you."
The hunter smiled wider. "No. She belongs to what's inside her."
The lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Isla gasped.
A gunshot cracked.
Metal screamed.
Rafe grabbed her and ran.
They burst through a side door into the storm, rain blinding, streets spinning.
They didn't stop until Isla's lungs burned and her legs nearly gave out.
They collapsed beneath a highway overpass, soaked, shaking, hidden by shadow.
For a long moment, only their breathing existed.
Rafe cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head.
His thumb brushed beneath her eye, gentle despite the violence around them.
"They knew my name," she whispered. "Rafe… they know me."
"Yes," he said quietly.
Fear rose.
"So you were telling the truth."
"Yes."
"And you're still not telling me everything."
Silence.
Rain drummed above them.
She searched his face. "I don't want lies. Not from you."
His hand didn't move.
"That man," he said slowly, "wasn't sent to kill you."
Her breath caught.
"What was he sent to do?"
"Claim you."
The word echoed inside her.
Claim.
Something about it felt wrong.
And worse…
Something about it felt like a prophecy.