The warehouse loomed ahead, an answer to our prayers.
Its corrugated metal walls were rusted, and its windows broken in places. Hardly inviting, but it would do.
“There,” I said, gesturing toward it.
My voice was low, clipped, though I knew Asher heard me clearly.
Hunters had exceptional hearing, especially when they were bristling with suspicion.
“We’ll hide there until they pass,” I added.
Asher hesitated. His stormy glare shifted from me to the warehouse, his fingers flexing near the hilt of his knife.
“I don’t trust you,” Asher stated.
Unable to help myself, I rolled my eyes.
“No kidding.” I started toward the building without waiting for his agreement.
If he wanted to keep chasing me down with his moral superiority and that maddening scent of righteous fury, he’d have to keep up.
The air between us was electric with animosity as he followed. Every step crackled with unspoken tension.
I told myself it was just the adrenaline, but deep down, I knew better.
Something about him unsettled me in a way no other hunter ever had. Inside, the warehouse smelled of oil and decay.
Moonlight streamed through gaps in the roof, casting faint beams onto abandoned machinery and crates.
I motioned for Asher to follow me deeper into the shadows. The farther we stayed from the entrances, the better our chances.
“You realize this is probably a trap,” he muttered as he scanned the area, knife in hand.
“You’re welcome to head back to your friends and let them shoot you,” I replied, keeping my tone light and sardonic.
It was easier to needle him than to acknowledge the way my gaze lingered on the curve of his jaw, the way his lips pressed together when he was angry.
Damn it. Why did he have to be so irritatingly alive?
“Don’t get too comfortable. Remember, this truce is temporary,” Asher snapped, his voice laced with venom.
“I saved your life back there, remember? Or do you prefer your friends’ bullets?” I reminded him.
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Silence fell between us, heavy and suffocating.
We found a spot behind a stack of crates, partially concealed by shadows.
Asher sat against one, his knife still in his hand, while I leaned against a rusted column.
“How long do we wait?” he asked, his voice low.
“As long as it takes,” I said.
He rolled his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
I smirked. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”
The way he glared at me, with equal parts frustration and grudging acknowledgment, made something twist inside me.
