Page 97 of Prey
The distinction feels important, though I’m not entirely sure why.
The drive back is quiet, tension humming between us like a live wire. Nikolai’s hand rests on my thigh, thumb tracing absent patterns while he navigates the country roads. I watch the landscape change from wilderness to suburbs to city, each mile taking us closer to whatever comes next.
“Are you nervous?” he asks as we enter Chicago.
“Terrified,” I admit.
His grip tightens, reassuring. “They already like you.”
“They don’t know me.”
“They know you killed five collectors.” His mouth quirks upward. “That earned their respect.”
I remember the woman in the underground who warned me about Nik, how she said he was different. Dangerous in waysthat went beyond normal predators. Now I’m about to meet eight more like him.
The warehouse looks different in daylight—less ominous, more industrial. Nikolai parks in what looks like an abandoned lot, but I now notice the subtle security measures. Cameras, sensors, barriers disguised as decay.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, though I’m anything but.
The elevator descends, and when the doors open, I’m hit by the sound of voices, laughter, the domestic chaos of men who live together.
“Looks like the hunter returns,” someone calls out as we step into what can only be described as a living room. Comfortable furniture, massive TV, and huge dining table.
Eight men look up from various activities—gaming, reading, and what appears to be an intense card game.
“Gentlemen,” Nikolai says, his hand settling at the small of my back. “Jenna.”
“Finally,” says a man with ash-blonde hair and devastating good looks. He rises from the couch. “I was beginning to think Nik was hiding you in shame.”
“Darius,” Nikolai warns.
But Darius ignores him, approaching with a smile that could melt steel. “I’m Darius. The one who kept telling our brooding leader to stop pining and claim you properly.”
He reaches for my hand, brings it to his lips in an old-world gesture that’s courtly, yet somehow he makes it suggestive. His blue eyes hold mine as he presses a kiss to my knuckles.
“Charming,” I manage.
“I try.” His smile widens. “Though from what I hear, you prefer the more… direct approach.”
Nikolai’s hand presses harder against my back, a possessive weight. “Enough.”
“Protective already?” Darius releases my hand but doesn’t step back. “How delightfully primitive of you.”
A muscular man with olive skin and intricate tattoos looks up from what appears to be a complex mathematical equation spread across three notebooks. “Probability suggests this introduction will devolve into territorial posturing within the next ninety seconds.”
“Thank you, Ezra,” Nikolai says dryly.
Ezra’s pale blue eyes study me with clinical intensity. “Fascinating variables in your behavioral patterns. The statistical likelihood of your survival, given your initial circumstances, was approximately twelve percent.”
“I don’t like being reduced to numbers,” I say.
His eyebrows rise. “No one does. That’s what makes the mathematics so pure.”
“Jesus, Ez, let the woman breathe,” says another man, this one with blonde hair and an asymmetrical style that somehow works perfectly. His eyes are unsettling. “I’m Marcus. I can sense you’re terrified.”
“Wouldn’t you be?” I counter.
