CHAPTER FOUR
Ted POV
"Oh dear, I thought my acting was pretty good," he says, smirking at me like he isn't tied to a chair in a rotting building.
I pull the knife back, and watch—with mild distate—as the shallow cut on his throat heals within seconds. Skin knitting back together like nothing happened.
Right. S-Class hunter.
Alden.
What was I thinking?
The panic is setting in now, quietly and steadily, like a slow leak in my lungs.
I saw him standing alone in the cold for nearly an hour. Head bowed. Hands in his pockets. Like he was waiting for something, or someone. Something about him tugged at me.
His hair was black under the streetlights, sleek and too long for someone so clean-cut. There was something dissonant about the picture. A little too perfect. A little too unreal.
Then he smiled at me when I approached. Like he didn't have a care in the world.
I should've known better.
I offered coffee. Pretended to be helpful. Slipped something mild into the cup. Just enough to make him sleep.
I don't even know why I did it.
Desperation? Madness? Attraction?
I don't have answers, just consequences.
And now I'm standing here, staring at a man I kidnapped who could very likely vaporize me without even raising his voice.
The worst part? He doesn't even look bothered.
"You're beautiful," he says lazily, his smile widening.
"If you wanted me, you didn't have to go through the trouble. Or maybe this is what you're into? If so, please continue."
He stretches his long legs in the creaky chair like he owns the room. Like he tied me up.
I grit my teeth.
"I'm the one with the knife. Shut it."
"Yikes," he replies, raising both brows.
"Someone's in a bad mood. I'm the one that was kidnapped, you know."
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to slice.
He shuts up. Kind of.
I move closer, start checking his pockets. My hands are stiff. I can feel the tension in my shoulders, the awareness of how wrong this has gone.
I try not to think about how firm his body feels under the expensive fabric. Or how the thin collar of his shirt shifts to reveal more of his skin with every move. Or how his eyes never stop watching me—half-lidded, curious, gleaming.
It's like he's amused. Or fascinated. Or both.
My fingers brush a wallet.
Designer. Of course it is.
I flip it open. Three sleek cards. No cash.
"So you were robbing me?" he says, voice pitched in mock shock.
"This wasn't a sex thing?"
I nearly choke.
"A sex—what?!"
I whip around, glaring at him.
"Why would you think that?!"
He raises a single brow. No explanation. Just that smirk.
It's infuriating.
His hair is sleek and black, framing his face in soft waves. His lips are too pink. His eyes are glittering with mischief.
He's rich, powerful, and drop-dead gorgeous.
I get it.
I hate it.
"Well, it's not," I mutter, snapping the wallet shut.
"If you really need the money," he says, his tone syrupy-sweet, "we could go and withdraw it."
"I hate you," I whisper before I can stop myself.
"You're not the first."
I shake my head and look away. Trying to catch my breath. Trying to decide what the hell I'm supposed to do now.
And then the world changes.
The air crackles.
At first, it feels like static. Like the air pressure drops and my ears pop. Then there's the sound. A ripping, groaning sound. Space folding in on itself.
A portal.
No—a tear.
A violent one. The glow is red and burning and wrong. The very air around it begins to warp, and I know, instinctively, that this is at least A-Class.
I don't have time to move.
The pull begins almost instantly.
Gravity spikes.
My knees buckle.
I shout, but the sound is swallowed by wind.
And just when I think I'm going to be torn apart—
Warm arms wrap around me.
Strong. Sure.
He catches me, shielding my body with his own, pulling me tight against him.
I barely register it.
Then we're falling.
Falling through space, through magic, through light.
Everything goes white.
Then black.
And then nothing.