Page 61 of Prey

I stare at the screen without really reading it. Fighting has become my outlet, the place where I can channel all this restless energy into something productive. But even violence isn’t enough anymore. Even putting my fists through someone else’s face doesn’t quiet the ache that’s taken up residence in my core.

Dropping the phone, I move to the window again, compelled by forces I don’t want to analyze. The unease hasn’t faded—if anything, it’s gotten stronger, settling into my bones like winter cold.

As I stand there in my dark apartment, surrounded by locks and weapons and the illusion of safety, one thought crystallizes with terrifying clarity.

The waiting is almost over.

My hand moves to the knife at my hip, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip.

Outside, Chicago continues its evening rhythm, oblivious to the woman standing at her window, caught between hope and terror, wondering if tonight is the night he finally catches up to her.

Wondering if she’ll run when it does.

Or if she’ll do what every broken part of her has been secretly craving.

If she’ll welcome him home.

I let the curtain fall and turn away from the window, but the feeling follows me.

Soon.

The floorboards creak as I move toward the bedroom, pulling my shirt over my head and throwing it onto the bed. And then unfasten my pants and chuck them on top.

A hand closes over my mouth before I can draw breath to scream.

Large, gloved, familiar in ways that make my body respond instinctively. The scent hits me next—a clean and sharp aroma that I’ve been dreaming about since I escaped.

I freeze, every muscle rigid as steel. Not from terror, though terror is there. From the way my nervous system remembers this, like a tuning fork struck at precisely the right frequency.

“Hello, beautiful.”

The voice comes from directly behind my ear, low and rough and filtered into something inhuman. The mask. He’s wearing the mask.

My knees try to buckle, but his free arm snakes around my waist, holding me upright against the solid wall of his chest. I can feel every line of muscle through his clothes, the controlled strength that could snap my neck or pull me closer, depending on his mood.

“Miss me?”

The question vibrates through his chest into my spine, and my body betrays me. Heat floods between my legs, nipples tightening against my bra. Three months of dreaming about this moment, and my traitorous flesh remembers how it felt to be owned by him.

I try to bite his hand, but he anticipates the movement, adjusting his grip to keep my jaw immobilized.

“Now, now. Is that any way to greet someone you’ve been thinking about every night?”

His cock presses hard against my ass, thick and demanding. The bastard knows exactly what he does to me, knows that my body will always betray my mind when it comes to him.

“You’ve been busy,” he continues, lips brushing my ear through the mask. “Killing collectors. Making quite a name for yourself in certain circles.”

My blood turns to ice. He knows. Of course he knows—probably tracked every death back to me.

“Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out? That I wouldn’t find you in my own fucking backyard?”

His grip shifts, thumb pressing against my pulse point. Measuring my terror and reading my body like a book he’s studied for years.

“Five collectors dead. All of them were knifed to death.” His voice drops to a growl that I feel in my bones.

The hand on my mouth tightens, not cutting off air but reminding me of his control. His other hand slides up my ribs, thumb brushing the underside of my breast.

“You escaped me to become a hunter yourself. Turned your captivity into a weapon.” I can hear pride in his voice. “I’m impressed.”