Page 18 of Prey

The question I can’t answer: why?

The walls are solid concrete, not drywall. I press my palm flat against the surface and feel no give, no hollow vibration. It is reinforced. The paint is thick, maybe to prevent scratching or counting days.

The ceiling is ten feet, give or take. Light fixture recessed and covered with what appears to be a polycarbonate panel. Can’t break it. Can’t reach it.

The floor is also concrete with a slight grade toward a drain in the corner. The drain has a cover bolted down, with a slot too narrow to fit fingers through.

The toilet-sink unit is the kind they put in maximum security prisons. Single piece, no removable parts. No mirror above it.The water runs only when I press a recessed button on the side, and it runs cold only.

I check the door. No seam I can work, no exposed hinges. The frame sits flush with the wall, a millimeter gap visible only because I’m looking for it. The lock mechanism is somewhere inside the wall itself.

No vents I can reach. There’s an air intake high on one wall, covered with a steel mesh grate that’s welded, not screwed.

I run through the inventory of everything I have to work with. My belt is leather, and could be twisted into a cord, but for what? There’s nothing to attach it to. Same problem with my bootlaces. The metal aglets at the tips might scratch a surface but won’t cut concrete. My nails are short because I keep them that way, and my hair has no clips.

I sit back on the bed. My hands are shaking. I press them flat against my thighs.

Think.

Who? Who would do this? Who has the money, the planning, and the discipline? Not Priya, not Dev, not anyone from the pharmacy. I never let anyone close enough to matter, so why have I become a target?

I don’t have an answer. I have the cold, slow understanding that all my preparations and safeguarding failed.

The locks on the door whirr.

Mechanical. Multiple bolts retracting in sequence, smooth and unhurried.

My heart stops.

The door swings inward.

He fills the frame. Easily six foot four, in matte black tactical clothing that clings to him like it’s been tailored. The mask is the first thing I notice. Bone-white and stark against the black tactical gear. Half-face, covering everything below his eyes,sculpted into the shape of a predator’s skull with hollow cheeks and vertical slits where his mouth should be.

Above the mask are striking pale eyes, the color of winter. Fixed on me.

I go very still.

Those eyes.

I know those eyes.

The memory slams into me—my apartment. This man had pressed against me from behind, the unmistakable hardness against my lower back before the world went dark.

My heart kicks up, but I don’t move. Despite the tactical gear and the mask that turns him into a nightmare, I can see what’s underneath. The bone structure visible above the mask is flawless—sharp cheekbones, a strong brow, and symmetry that makes people stare. His hair is dark with lighter highlights, cut shorter on the sides and longer on the top. Every line of his posture radiates control.

He’s beautiful. Devastatingly, unnaturally beautiful in the way predators sometimes are—designed to draw you in before they strike.

The mask should make it worse. Should turn him into a pure threat. But somehow it makes the perfection above it more pronounced, like he’s split in half—angelic beauty above, death below.

He watches me watching him, studying me like a difficult puzzle. I wonder if he can see my pulse jumping at my neck, and if he knows that my stillness isn’t just fear.

Because underneath the terror, underneath the rage at being taken, there’s heat. Recognition not just from my apartment but from a far deeper and darker place.

He was hard when he took me. I remember the shape of him, the heat through his clothes. The careful way he held me even as he pressed that needle into my neck—not violent, not rough.

The silence stretches between us, thick with a charge that makes my skin prickle. My mouth is dry. My hands have stopped shaking, but now they’re clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms.

“You were in my apartment.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Why am I here?”