A powerful magic crackled over her skin as the raven fluttered around her. Rosalind flinched, waiting for the coup de grace.

But, instead of a death blow, she felt the sharp pain in her neck subside, and her arms relaxed, free to move. A shuddering breath slid from her, and she pulled her hand from her throat. He’d healed her. Why the hell would a shadow mage heal a Hunter? Mages and Hunters were ancient enemies, and if he’d known what she’d done…

She locked the thought away. She had no idea if mage skills included telepathy.

As his magic caressed her skin, it occurred to her she’d never felt this aura before. It wasn’t the briny scent from earlier. It was rich and earthy—and strangely sensual, as if it was licking her skin.

As she rose, she gripped the vial of aerosolized dust, holding his gaze. He stood at least a head taller than her, and something about his predatory stillness told her to run. Still, she schooled her features into calm. Showing fear to a mage would only provoke his bloodlust.

She swallowed hard, trying to gather her thoughts as she stared at him, stunned as much by his beauty as by his feral gaze. Slate-gray eyes, tousled brown hair, sharp cheekbones—he looked more angelic than demonic. How could a mage be so gorgeous? Magic was supposed to corrupt human bodies.

His gaze slid to her weapon. “Purgator dust.” His voice chilled her skin. “You mean to burn the magic off me, after I just saved your life?”

She gritted her teeth. She knew one thing: he hadn’t saved her life because he was a nice guy. But either way, she wasn’t supposed to kill him. As humans, mages were to be taken back to the Brotherhood’s Chambers alive. Of course, that assumed she actually stood a chance against him. In reality, he could probably pulverize her with a spell in a fraction of a second.

She tried to steady her voice, refusing to show submission. “It’s my job to catch monsters.”

She eyed his physique—pure, lean muscle, his forearms tattooed with a forest of magical symbols. Everything about his appearance screamed at her to get away—yet there was something oddly familiar about him. She’d seen those pale eyes before. And what was with his accent? Not American. Not English. Something older, that tickled the darkest recesses of her memory.

The raven—his familiar—perched on his shoulder, its dark gaze fixed on her.

“You think I’m a monster.” The mage’s tone conveyed only the faintest hint of interest. “Why am I not surprised?” With the bestial glint in his eye, he’d clearly lost his humanity long ago.

“Well, yeah.” She didn’t want to tempt his wrath, but there was no point lying to a mage. It would only make him angrier.

What was she supposed to do now? She’d just let a mage kill her target and cast a spell on her. And she had no chance of beating him in a fight.