Page 62 of Prey

My mind races as my body melts against him. This is it—the moment I’ve been subconsciously preparing for, the confrontation that was always inevitable. He’s found me, cornered me, pressed against me in my own apartment with his hand over my mouth and his cock hard against my ass.

And instead of fighting, instead of reaching for one of the dozen weapons scattered throughout this room, I’m getting wet.

“But playtime’s over now, Jenna.”

My real name on his lips makes my core clench. Three months of being Kathy, of building this new identity from blood and violence and lies. But he still sees through it all.

“Time to come home.”

Home.

As if that concrete cell, that underground facility, that bed where he made me beg and tell him I was his—as if any of that was home rather than captivity.

His hand moves from my breast to my throat, fingers wrapping around the column in a grip that’s firm but not cruel. Just enough pressure to make my pulse jump, to remind me of all the ways he can hurt me if I make the wrong choice.

“You’re going to be very quiet,” he murmurs against my ear. “Very still. And very, very good for me.”

The knife. I have a knife in my boot, another in the nightstand drawer, a third taped under the kitchen sink. All I need is one moment of distraction, one second where his attention wavers, and I can?—

“I wouldn’t.”

His voice cuts through my planning like ice water. The hand on my throat tightens enough to make breathing conscious instead of automatic.

“I know where you keep your weapons, beautiful. Know this apartment like I know your body—thoroughly and with great attention to detail.” His thumb strokes my skin. “The knife in your boot. The one in the nightstand. The ceramic blade you think is so cleverly hidden in the kitchen.”

My heart stops. He’s been here. Been in my space, touched my things, violated the sanctuary I built for myself. For how long? Hours? Days? Weeks?

“I’ve been watching you for a few days now. Learning your new patterns. Your fighting style is impressive, by the way—very efficient. Very brutal. You’ve become exactly what I knew you could be the first time you came at me with a blade you barely knew how to hold.”

The pride in his voice makes me sick. Makes me wet. Makes me want to lean back into his strength and let him carry the weight of my choices for a while.

“The hunting ends tonight. The killing ends tonight.” His grip shifts, thumb pressing harder against my windpipe. “You’re mine, Jenna. You’ve always been mine. And it’s time to stop pretending otherwise.”

I try to shake my head, try to communicate through the hand over my mouth that I won’t go back, that I’ll fight him with everything I have. He reads my intention in the tension of my muscles, the way my weight shifts as I prepare to move. I move anyway.

Three months back in the cage circuit. Five collectors dead by my hand. I try the only move that has any chance against someone holding me from behind—I drop my weight suddenly, twist hard, drive my elbow back toward his solar plexus, reach simultaneously for the knife in my boot.

He responds before I finish the motion. His hand intercepts my elbow midstrike, redirects the force. His other hand abandons my mouth, catches my wrist on the way to my boot, twists it just shy of dislocation. In the time it takes me to register what’s happened, he has my wrist locked behind my back, his body pressed against mine harder than before, his other hand back across my throat. Carotid position. He could render me unconscious in three seconds.

I freeze. I’ve killed five men with knives. Choked out collectors twice my size. None of those men moved like this.

Through the mask, he laughs. Low. A sound that isn’t quite human.

“There she is,” he murmurs against my ear. “I was getting worried.”

The pressure at my carotid eases. The wrist lock stays.

“That,” he says. “That was what I spent three months hunting for. Not the woman who left my bed. The one who built herself into someone who could try that and almost pull it off.”

Thealmostlands like a slap. He’s telling me I got close. Closer than I thought. He’s also telling me I was never going to make it.

“Try again,” he says. “I want to see what you’ve got. I want to know exactly how much you’ve learned.”

I don’t try again.

Because I understand now. This isn’t a recapture. It’s an interview. He’s not afraid of what I became—he’s hoping for it. He came back for the woman who could try to take him out, not the one who left his bed. The fight isn’t going to stop when he takes me.

I could keep trying. He’d let me, because he wants to feel it land. He’d let me cut him just so he could know I was capable.