Kane’s POV

I know I’m being hunted before I hear them.

It’s the way the night goes quiet all at once—too clean, too deliberate. Crickets cut off mid-song. Wind dies in the trees like someone’s closed a door. Even my boots sound wrong against the forest floor, each step swallowed instead of echoed.

I slow, fingers flexing at my sides.

“Cowards,” I mutter into the dark. “If you’re going to try again, at least be creative.”

The answer comes as steel.

A blade whistles past ...