Page 12 of Hunted

And only because there was no one around, I paused—just for a moment—resting against the wall just outside the door. The cold, grey stone called my name, and I closed my eyes, dropping my head against it.

Just for a few breaths. I can afford that.

Unfortunately, a side effect of an adrenaline crash was the post-adrenaline blues.

My face scrunched up with the effort it took not to fall to pieces right there in the hallway. Tears pricked the backs of my eyes. My anger had given way to horror and the alarming re-realisation that death was but a moment away at any given point.

I could have died today. And then what?

Raised voices came from further down the hall, around the corner—a blessing in disguise. Startled out of my impending breakdown, I backed away as quietly as I could, knowing I wouldn’t be alone for much longer and I needed to get the fuck out of dodge.

“Fucking Pearce, the piece of shit!” they yelled. “Who does he think he is?!”

I knew that voice; that snarling bite.

Time to GO, Addie.

“I cannot wait to bring my father up to speed,” he continued.

Sebastos. Of course. And I’d be willing to bet his two sidekicks were in tow, meaning it was about to be three-on-one if I didn’t get the fuck out of this hallway. Forgoing silence for speed, I bolted in the opposite direction, still half-focused on the words. I sprinted around the far corner and slammed straight into a brick wall.

A brick wall that hadn’t been there yesterday.

A warm, damp brick wall that smelled of fresh rain and the faint tinge of heady cologne, with biceps the size of my head.

A ripped, toned, god of a brick wall that was glaring down at me for having had the audacity to run straight into him.

Hunter Beckett opened his pretty mouth to speak—no doubt to berate me on my lack of situational awareness or for getting blood on his shirt—but cut himself off just as quickly. His eyes darted to the corner I’d just flown around when Seb’s grating whine followed me.

“...Pearce, and his fucking little whore, Sinclair…”

Beckett’s gaze snapped back down to my face, a flicker of a question flitting across it before Sebastos continued his tirade.

“That bitch will be next in the graveyard.”

Great. There goes my sleep for the next six months.

Beckett stepped silently around me, pausing before disappearing around the corner. Without so much as a backwards glance, his fingers flicked minutely in the universal gesture of scram, kid.

“Varco!” he bellowed as I stumbled backwards. “A word. My office, now.”

“But—”

“That’s an order, not a request.” His footsteps thundered towards the dorms without another word.

At least he hadn’t chewed me out for the blood.

Never one to second-guess good fortune, I bolted down the hall and up the dusty staircase. I didn’t stop, not once, until I crashed through the bathroom door and slammed it shut behind me.

Lungs heaving and heart racing, I tried to blame the sprint. But deep down, I knew it had nothing to do with physical exertion, and everything to do with the two extra-large, extra-muscled bodies that had pressed up against mine in the last half hour.

My imagination was going to have a field day.

Fleur waltzed into our secret bathroom twenty minutes later, arms piled high with a bright red first aid kit and three different-sized bottles of various alcohols that came from fuck knows where.

“I picked up a stray along the way,” she joked, nodding to the tall, biracial man standing in the open doorway.

“Rude,” Ethan quipped, his nose scrunching in faux indignation.