Page 95 of Prey

“Then don’t.” She straddles my lap in the tub. “Don’t ever stop touching me.”

I slide into her slowly, so slowly, watching her face for signs of pain. She’s swollen and tender, but she takes me anyway, sinks down until I’m buried to the hilt. No breeding talk this time. No claiming, possession, or promises of pregnancy. Just her body accepting mine, welcoming me home.

“Jenna.” Her name breaks on my lips.

We move together in the steaming water, gentle now, careful. My hands cup her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone while she rides me with small, precise movements. The water creates friction and slip, making every touch electric.

“I love the way you feel,” I whisper against her mouth. “Inside you. Part of you.”

She comes quietly, a soft exhale and tightening muscles, her forehead pressed to mine. I follow seconds later, spilling into her with a groan that echoes off marble walls.

Afterward, I lift her from the tub, wrap her in towels that swallow her whole. She looks impossibly small, fragile in a way that makes my chest tight with a feeling I can’t name. I dry her carefully, then dress her in clean clothes—soft cotton that won’t chafe her marked skin.

“Hungry?” I ask.

She nods, and I lead her from the room for the first time in two days. The compound’s kitchen is industrial, with all-stainless-steel, commercial-grade equipment. I sit her on a stool at the prep island, then move around the space.

“You cook?” she asks, watching me pull ingredients from the refrigerator.

“Had to learn.” I crack eggs into a bowl, whisking them smooth.

The normalcy of cooking feels surreal after the intensity we’ve shared. But her presence grounds me, makes even mundane tasks feel significant. I make her scrambled eggs with cheese, toast with real butter, and coffee black.

She eats slowly, watching me over the rim of her mug. “What happens now?”

The question I’ve been avoiding. “What do you want to happen?”

“I asked first.”

I lean against the counter, studying her face. The bruises look worse in normal light. Evidence of my loss of control, my desperate need to mark, claim, and possess.

Instead of answering, I reach for the mask. It sits on the counter where I left it before entering the breeding room; the composite material that’s been my face for so many years—I forget sometimes what lies underneath.

“Do you know what this means to me?” I ask, turning it over in my hands.

She shakes her head.

“It’s not just a mask.” I trace the material, the predatory lines carved into artificial bone. “When I put this on, I become what they made me. No conscience. No hesitation. No mercy.”

“And without it?”

“Without it, I’m just a man who wants you so badly he can’t think straight.”

I set the mask down and move around the island until I’m standing between her knees. She’s still sitting on the stool, which puts us at eye level. Perfect for what I need to show her.

“I want you to understand both sides.” I lift the mask and position it over the lower half of my face. The familiar weight settles against my skin, and immediately I feel the shift. The cold focus. The predatory calm.

“This is who hunted you,” I say, voice muffled by bone and breathing filters. “Who caught you. Who dragged you back.”

I lift her from the stool, pin her against the island’s edge. She gasps, hands flying to my chest, but doesn’t resist when I spin her around, bend her forward over the steel surface.

“This is who bred you in that room.” I grind against her ass, let her feel my hardness through our clothes. “Who claimed every hole. Who plans to keep you forever.”

I push her pants down, along with the cotton underwear I dressed her in. She’s still swollen from our bath encounter, but she’s wet too, responsive even after everything.

“Please,” she whispers, and I can’t tell if it’s a protest or a plea.

I slide into her in one smooth thrust, hold her down with a hand between her shoulder blades. The mask makes my breathing sound inhuman. A predator claiming its prey.