“Wait here,” Moriarty said, turning away to stroll briskly up the gravel driveway. He hadn’t even given Moran time to acquiesce. Then again, he already knew what his answer would be. Moran would never think of disobeying Moriarty.
Moran stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked a few pebbles around aimlessly, glancing up at the sprawling manor home every so often. He didn’t have a problem with waiting. Being able to wait was an integral part of being a hunter, except they didn’t call it waiting. They called it stalking.
Moran looked up with a grin as a strange thought entered his mind.
Does that mean I’m stalking Moriarty then?
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