Tempting the Huntress

Chapter 4-We have a date!

Rise and shine, dagger-girl. Bet you’re sharpening that blade of yours right now. Don’t cut your pretty fingers.

Fun fact: I make better coffee than the bakery down the street. Don’t believe me? Guess you’ll have to find out.

Lilith’s phone buzzed against the wooden nightstand before the sun had even cleared the cliffs. Again. She didn’t need to look to know who it was. The entire town was asleep, but she knew, along with her, who was awake.

Zane.

The man had made it his personal mission to invade her mornings. For the past three days, she’d woken not to the comfort of silence but to a string of texts lighting up her screen like flares. Always at odd hours, always carrying the same mix of arrogance and teasing charm that made her fingers itch to block him.

Lilith rolled onto her back, pulled the curtains, and unlocked the phone just long enough to skim the new message.

Zane: Still ignoring me? You’re good at it. Almost too good. Makes me wonder if you’re secretly thinking about me just as much as I’m thinking about you.

Her lips curved, not into a smile, but into something sharper. With a flick of her thumb, she locked the phone again and dropped it back on the nightstand, face down.

Let him talk to the void. She had more important things to worry about. That was her plan. She was sure he would get tired of it.

Lilith had more to worry about anyway.

Yesterday, the Academy’s announcement swept through the halls like wildfire, tightening every spine, sharpening every gaze, lighting the fire in each of their heart and minds.

The Trial.

It came every year, but never the same. At the end of the semester, each student would be tested, mind, body, and spirit. The worthy would earn their place in the Order. The unworthy… would be sent home, disgraced, forgotten. The ones passing become one of the best weapons in human form to exist.

Two-thirds never made it past their first trial.

Last year, one didn’t just fail—they never came back. Not even a body

Lilith had watched the murmurs spread, some students pale with dread, others puffed up with false bravado. She had only felt a coil of excitement in her chest.

Finally—something real.

Something that mattered. Not endless etiquette, not tradition paraded on a silver platter. A challenge. A chance to carve her name in stone without the shadow of her family propping her up.

This was what she lived for.

She sat at the edge of her bed now, sliding the dagger from its sheath and running her thumb over the runes. The Trial would strip the weak bare and crush them underfoot, but for Lilith Rothwell, it was exactly what she had been bred for.

Discipline, endurance, ruthlessness.

All those years under her father’s cold gaze, all those scars she wore like hidden medals, this was where they would pay off.

Her pulse thrummed with the thrill of challenge.

And this one would decide everything.

–

The phone buzzed again. And again.

Lilith exhaled through her nose, slow, sharp, resisting the urge to fling the thing out the window. She is still questioning herself as to why she hasn’t blocked him. God knows, she wanted to, but something stopped her.

Zane: Coffee? I promise not to call you dagger-girl out loud.

Zane: (Okay, maybe once. But affectionately.)

Zane: Come on, you still owe for the car. Just coffee, all I ask.

She ignored it, tightening the strap on her thigh sheath. The blade settled into place, cool, steadying. Why was he so…ugh!!

Buzz.

Zane: Not into coffee? Fine. Hot chocolate? Tea? A glass of water, where I sit on the other side of the table, and you glower at me like you want to stab me? I’m flexible.

Lilith’s lips twitched. Almost. She bit down on it and reached for her boots.

Buzz.

Zane: Or, hear me out, I could show you something fun in town. Not tourist fun. Ravenshore fun. The kind that doesn’t make it into guidebooks.

She yanked the laces tight, jaw firm.

Buzz.

Zane: Come on, Lilith. You are all work, no fun. Followed with a sad emoji*

Buzz.

Zane: Unless, of course, you’re afraid you’ll actually enjoy my company.

That did it. Her hand shot out, grabbing the phone before she could stop herself. Her thumb hovered over the screen, her pulse a little too quick for her liking. The nerve of him, needling her, trying to push past her walls with that smug charm.

Lilith locked the phone without replying, tossing it back onto the bed as if burning the temptation out of her palm.

She would not give in.

And yet, as she walked out into the crisp Ravenshore morning, the words clung to her like the sea mist, taunting, relentless. Afraid you’ll actually enjoy my company.

Damn him for bringing out her deep-seated fears.

–

The Academy’s courtyard buzzed with morning energy, students darting across the frost-streaked stones, their voices rising like sparrows. The Trial announcement still clung to the air like smoke after a battle; nobody could stop talking about it. Every glance was sharper, every laugh edged with tension, as if half the hall already measured who would fall and who might endure.

Lilith moved through it all like a blade cutting cloth, silent, precise, avoiding entanglement. She had no patience for gossip or empty bravado. Let them tremble. Let them preen. She had no doubt about what she was here to do.

“Rothwell.”

Of course. The voice slithered through the crowd, rich with confidence and the kind of smooth British arrogance that made her teeth grind.

Harry Sinclair.

He cut toward her with his usual swagger, a knot of well-dressed students in his wake like he was the sun and they were all doomed to orbit him. His uniform was pristine, boots polished, the golden crest of the Sinclair line glinting on his chest as if it had been shone just for her benefit.

Pfft! Show off.

He spread his arms as if to embrace her, though thankfully, he didn’t dare. “There you are. Took you long enough to grace us with your presence.”

“Unfortunately,” Lilith said, crossing her arms over her chest and shifting her weight to one hip, clearly impatient.

Harry’s grin sharpened. “I’d almost worried you’d keep to yourself forever. But then again, I should’ve known. Rothwells never stay in the shadows; they stand beside the Sinclairs.”

There were murmurs from his entourage, some eager, some curious. Lilith recognized their faces: children of legacy families, already clustered into their own neat little alliances. It made sense; they were raised to see the Academy as a chessboard and themselves as pieces with centuries of blood behind them.

She folded her arms. “If you’re about to suggest I join your little fan club, Sinclair, you’ll save us both time by not asking.”

He laughed. Loud, deliberate, the kind of laugh that demanded attention. Students glanced their way, whispering. “Oh, Lilith. Still fiery, I see. But you’ll realize soon enough, this place doesn’t reward lone wolves. Hunters, like the things we hunt, are stronger in packs. Please don’t tell me, old Rothwell didn’t teach you that.”

Her jaw tightened. She hated that he was right. Alliances are very important for the hunters.

Before she could answer, Francoise appeared at her side like a shadow sliding into place. Her sleek hair and pristine posture made her look like she’d been sculpted from marble, but her eyes, sharp and practical, were warm in a way that surprised Lilith.

“Harry’s not wrong,” Francoise said softly, though not without a knowing glance in his direction. “The Trial is designed to strip you all bare. Alone, most of the students won’t last. You will need alliances.. Even the best-trained blade needs a shield.”

Lilith turned to her. “You think I need allies?”

“I think we all do,” Francoise replied evenly. “Even you, Rothwell.”

Harry leaned in, smirk widening. “See? Even your appointed chaperone thinks you should join the winning side.”

Francoise hissed at Harry for calling her that.

Lilith resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Winning side? Or loudest side?”

Harry chuckled, unbothered. “The difference is irrelevant if the outcome’s the same.”

Her fingers itched for the comfort of her dagger. She despised this game. Alliances, reputations, family names, they cluttered the battlefield with noise. Still, Francoise’s words dug into her.

Hunters need packs, too.

Her father had said something similar once, though in harsher terms: A hunter who believes they need no one dies alone in the dark.

Lilith chewed on the thought long after Harry and his entourage swept away, his laughter echoing like a challenge.

She didn’t want Harry’s so-called “elite” alliance. That was just another gilded leash, another cage of expectations. But Francoise had a point; this wasn’t a war she could fight alone. The Trial wasn’t about one’s name; it was about survival. And survival often came down to numbers.

But she doesn’t have to follow this so-called elite group.

Lilith stalked across the courtyard, boots tapping against the stone, her mind turning like a blade on a whetstone. Her parents would expect her to form alliances with old families, cement Rothwell ties, and play politics the way they’d always been played.

But she didn’t want what they wanted.

If she was going to form a pack, it would be her choice, her rules. No leashes. No chains.

She reached for her phone almost without realizing it. Zane’s name glowed on the screen, the unread texts stacked like bait waiting for her.

Coffee. Hot chocolate. Ravenshore fun. Afraid you’ll actually enjoy my company.

Her thumb hovered. She almost laughed at herself. You’re considering this? Him?

But the truth cut sharply: Zane knew Ravenshore in a way none of the elites ever would. He wasn’t bound to the Academy’s rigid order or its suffocating hierarchy. If she wanted to understand the town, its shadows, its secrets, the things that might tip the scales in the Trial, he was her best option.

Of course, she told herself it was strategic. Tactical. Nothing more.

Not curiosity. Not the faint thrill that lingered when his voice curled around her name.

Just strategy.

She unlocked it. The screen lit up, his last message taunting her.

Her lips curved, not into a smile, never that, but into something sharp, something dangerous.

Maybe, she thought. Maybe she would take him up on his offer. Not because she wanted to. Not because she liked him. But because knowledge was power. And Zane, irritatingly, seemed to have plenty.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

Lilith: Tomorrow at Costworld Bolaungerie. 11 am sharp!

Zane: Sounds like we have a date.