Chapter 1 The hunter

Jivu's POV

The race had begun a few minutes ago and I was masquerading as one of the racers, having tied the one who should be using this bike in a bathroom stall two kilometres back.

I joined this illegal underground race not because I love bikes or ever dreamt of racing one. I am here to kill someone.

He is none other than the king of the most notorious bike gang under the wing of the infamous Moonbone pack. Nobody knows his face. They call him the Hunter. He is likely the son of the recently dead Alpha of the Moonbone pack, here to take over and continue his father's bloodthirsty legacy.

I am here to end that thread before it becomes something nobody can cut.

The bikes screamed down the winding illegal track, deep into the outskirts where the forest swallowed the road and the only rule was finishing. No officials, no cameras, no names, just speed and people who showed up to places that did not exist on any map.

He was at the front. Of course he was.

I pushed harder, leaving the pack behind until it was just the two of us and the dark road and the trees closing in on both sides.

Now here was my problem.

A royal lycan does not die from a silver bullet the same way a regular wolf does. A shot to his back would not kill him, it would just tell him where I was and give him enough time to rip me apart before the wound registered as pain. Shooting him directly was an announcement not an execution.

So I aimed at the tire instead.

I pulled the gun from the holster strapped flat against my right thigh, aimed low and pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the dark. His back tire exploded, the bike lurched and fishtailed, fighting itself for two long seconds before it gave out and skidded sideways off the road in a shower of sparks, dragging to a stop at the tree line.

I dropped my bike and moved towards him.

Blade in hand. My poison ability stirring hot in my blood, ready. One strike to the heart was all it needed. Clean and certain.

He was crouched beside the wrecked bike when I came at him from behind.

He somersaulted sideways before I got within a metre, landed in a low stance and straightened up like he had all the time in the world.

"Why do you have Magna's helmet on you?" His voice was unhurried. Almost amused. "Who are you?"

"That is not what you should be asking when you are about to die," I said. "You should be figuring out how to survive your next remaining seconds."

He laughed. Dark and low and unbothered.

I went for the heart.

He deflected the first strike and stepped into the second, pushing my angle wide. I dropped low, switched hands and drove the blade upward. He caught my wrist mid arc, redirected it and spun me sideways.

I hit the ground rolling and came back up fast.

Then his power moved.

The darkness between the trees pulled away from the ground and rushed at me in a wave. It hit like a wall, cold and solid and pressing from every direction at once.

I went down on one knee.

I wrenched sideways and rolled free. The darkness lashed out as I moved, tendrils whipping through the air, and one caught the helmet clean, yanking it off my head and sending it crashing into the trees.

I straightened up.

The agency mask was in place underneath. A masquerade piece covering from my brow to the bridge of my nose, black and ornate, with a gold decorated white veil that fell to cover my mouth and jaw.

He went still.

"So you are the Bride, huh." Like confirmation of something he already suspected. "I have been hearing about you. Been waiting."

"You talk a lot for someone about to die."

"Do not be so sure," he said dryly.

I went for him again, different angle, lower, faster. The darkness surged and I pushed through it, feeling it tear across my arms cold and sharp, and my blade hit his chest. Left side.

He had let me.

I knew it the second his hand locked around my wrist. The blade had not reached the heart. He had shifted deliberately at the last second and now held my wrist and the poison was spreading too slowly through a non vital strike to matter.

I pulled hard. He did not move.

"Let us see how the Bride looks," he said, I could feel the smile behind his words. "The name gives pretty vibes."

"You will only see this face when you have killed me," I said.

I drove my knee into his groin with everything I had.

He groaned loud and low. "Fuck you. I will kill you I swear."

His grip cracked open and I wrenched free. He straightened faster than anyone had a right to and when his eyes found me the amusement was gone.

The darkness detonated outward in every direction, swallowing everything beyond the circle around me into black.

I hated using my full power. But this man was pushing me toward it.

The poison rose in my blood and I felt the heat building toward my palms. I pushed it back down. Using it here would expose me to everyone within range.

He moved through his own darkness like it was daylight for him.

I tracked him by sound, footsteps and breath.

He came from the left and I spun to meet him and for a moment we were locked together, his hand on my arm, my free hand braced against his chest, close enough to feel the tension of solid muscle beneath the leather jacket and none of that was information I needed right now.

He reached for my mask.

I had no clean move, blade in his grip, power would expose me, angle was wrong.

His fingers found the edge of the mask.

I drove my forehead into his with everything I had left.

The crack went through my skull.

His grip broke.

I ran. Wolf speed burning through my legs, I cleared the wrecked bike in one jump and hit the tree line at a full sprint and did not stop.

No one was supposed to know my face. Not the underground. Not him. If my face got out the government would come for me before my enemies did.

I ran until the road noise disappeared. Then I stopped, pressed my back against a trunk and breathed, looking around to make sure he was not following.

My hand went to the mask in place across my face.

That was the first time anyone had ever gotten that close to me. The Hunter had a file that did not do him justice, power the agency had underestimated and a way of fighting that suggested he had been doing it since before he was old enough for anyone to think he should stop.

Next time we meet he will be dead. I would make certain of that.