Page 26 of Prey

The name hits unexpectedly. Russian origin. It fits him somehow—the harsh consonants, the way it demands to be pronounced correctly. I test it, letting it roll off my tongue.

“Nikolai.”

A sound escapes him—low, guttural, barely audible through the mask. His entire body goes rigid, hands forming fists at his sides. The growl sends heat straight through me, and suddenly I understand. He’s imagining me saying his name in a very different context. Imagining how it would sound when he?—

My thighs clench at the thought. Just a small movement, but his gaze drops immediately. When they travel back up to my face, his pupils are blown wide.

The concrete room suddenly feels smaller. The air is thinner.

He takes a step back, but it looks like it costs him. “Eat your food.”

“Nikolai.” I say it again, watching him flinch like I’ve struck him.

“Stop.”

“Why? You gave me your name. Don’t you want to hear me use it?” I ask.

His breath shifts, audible through the mask’s filter. His pants do nothing to hide his body’s response to this conversation. To me saying his name like it’s mine now.

“This is not—” He cuts himself off, jaw working beneath the white material.

“Not what?” I press, even though I should probably shut up. Antagonizing the man holding me captive goes against every survival instinct I possess. “Not what you planned? Not how your other acquisitions go?”

He’s at the door now, fingers wrapped around the handle so tight his knuckles strain white.

“Eat,” he grits out. “Or I’ll make you.”

The threat should scare me. Instead, warmth pools low in my belly at the rough quality in his voice.

“I’d like to see you try.”

The words leave my mouth before the part of me that survived my stepfather’s hands can scream the warning.

He’s across the room in two strides. His hand wraps around my throat—not squeezing, just there, thumb pressing against my pulse point. My back hits the concrete wall, and suddenly he’s everywhere. Six-foot-four of controlled violence pressed against me, the bone mask inches from my face.

He’s breathing hard through the filter, chest heaving like he’s run miles. Those eyes are almost black now, pupils so wide I can barely see the irises.

My body’s response is immediate and wrong. Heat floods through me, nipples tightening against the thin fabric of my shirt. My heartbeat slams against his palm, and I know he feels it. Knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

This shouldn’t be happening. My stepfather used to pin me like this, hand at my throat while he?—

Nikolai’s grip is firm but not cruel. He’s holding himself back, trembling with the effort of not tightening his fingers.

“You don’t know what you’re playing with.” His voice comes out barely human through the mask.

My hips shift, seeking pressure, and I hate myself for it. I hate that my body learned these twisted responses so young. That fear and arousal got tangled up in my nervous system before I understood the difference.

His free hand comes up, braces against the wall beside my head, and cages me in. His thumb strokes once along my throat—gentle, almost affectionate—and I make a sound I don’t recognize.

“This is not—” He stops, swallows hard. Through the pants, I can feel how affected he is, his erection pressing against my stomach. “I don’t do this with acquisitions.”

“Then why with me?”

The question hangs between us, eyes searching mine, looking for an answer neither of us has. His thumb traces my collarbone, and I can’t stop the small gasp that escapes my lips.

“Mine.” The word comes out possessive. His hand tightens just slightly around my throat. “You’re mine.”

Mine.