He tilted his head slightly, the movement subtle but dangerous, his sharp, unforgiving eyes fixed on her as if weighing how much he might enjoy watching her fight for her life.

His voice, edged with threat, came again. “Seems to me you really do have a death wish.”

Y/n’s heart pounded, thudding so hard against her ribs it felt as if it might burst out any moment. Her lips parted, then closed again. Words balanced at the edge of her tongue but refused to fall. She had learned long ago that silence was safer than lying too soon.

Frozen on the spot, unable to move, she realized too late that her gaze had locked with his. But the worst, most infuriating part was that he hadn’t even needed to see her eyes to know it was her. Before she had turned, he already knew.

Her insides trembled, yet rage boiled just as fiercely inside her, rage at how he made her fail twice, despite her years of training. He seemed to know her every move without needing to catch her, as though he knew her deep in her bones, as if she were an open book to him.

His merciless gaze roved over her from head to toe. Every nerve in her screamed to retreat, yet she remained still. When his boots moved, two long, lazy strides closing the distance, chills erupted over her skin. Her breathing quickened. The torn cloth at her shoulder suddenly felt too revealing, too exposed.