Hunter

by Eden Summers

  I cluck my tongue at him. “That looming thing doesn’t work anymore. Last time you did it, I got an orgasm, remember?”

  His lips kick, slow and subtle. “You can this time, too. All you need to do is give me the name.”

  I fight a shudder. Fight and fight and fail. Tingles wrack my body, from collarbone to nipples and stomach. “No. Thanks.”

  “Come on, Steph. What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing,” I snap. “I didn’t get a damn thing.”

  This man has already stripped me of too much—my dignity, my strength, my confidence. He won’t steal the secrets of my past, too.

  “Please.” The plea is pained, almost believable. “I’m not joking. They’re going to come after you. That man you met earlier—Torian—is a bad guy. Worse than Dan. Worse than me. Worse than any motherfucker you’ve ever met. But if you talk, I can help you.”

  I roll my eyes. “So this big, bad motherfucker lets me walk free if I talk?”

  “I can protect you.”

  “Oh, goodie.” I release a derisive chuckle. “Is this where I’m supposed to swoon?”

  “No. This is where you tell me the fucking truth so both of us walk away from this unscathed.”

  I chuckle again, and this time it hurts. Pressure consumes my chest, moving higher, wider, deeper. “Too late,” I whisper.

  He lets out a heavy breath and leans in to rest the side of his head against mine. I want to fight for space, for freedom, but I can’t when everything inside me still aches for proximity.

  I need to believe in his torment. That the pain he’s wrapping around me in tightening ribbons is real.

  “I never meant for this shit to happen between us. I never meant to want you,” he admits. “And now we’re in a fucking mess, and the only way out is for you to tell me what you know.”

  “Then trust me when I say whatever information you’re after, I didn’t get.”

  “That’s for me to decide.”

  He leans closer, those lips a breath away, his hips pressing harder. The thick length of his erection nestles against my pubic bone, and I freeze in disbelief.

  This fucker is horny. And damn it, the thought of his arousal has the same effect on me. My nipples tingle. My pussy tightens.

  “Tell me,” he whispers against my neck.

  His mouth trails my skin, leaving a path of goosebumps in its wake. He’s a murderer. A killer. And I still want to kiss him. Taste him. Devour him.

  I hate myself for the war waging inside me. The battle between sanity and stupidity. A ragged breath escapes my lips and he leans closer, our mouths almost touching.

  “I’ll protect you. I can promise that.”

  I crave the truth of those words, even when he’s played me so many times already. I can’t help bridging the space between us to sweep my mouth over his in a gentle glide.

  He relaxes, all those muscles losing their tension. I don’t want to enjoy this, but I do. The bliss sinks under my skin, flutters my heart, and warms my limbs.

  I want more. I want everything.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  I break the connection and pull back, sinking my teeth into my lower lip to stop the tingling throb.

  “If I tell you, will you really protect me?” I ask.

  “With my life.”

  I smile through my heartache and raise my hand to his hair. I guide the strands away from his eyes, brush my fingertips along the rough stubble of his jaw, then launch the heel of my palm into his Adam’s apple.

  He buckles, hunching over in an instant.

  I give him a shove to escape the confinement of his body. He coughs, splutters, and swings out an arm, trying to catch me. I slap away his touch and run for the gun, leaning over to scoop it up before twirling back in his direction.

  “Move away from the car,” I yell.

  He clears his throat, chokes, swallows. “Don’t do this.” His voice is raspy as he shakes his head.

  “I’ll shoot you if I have to.” I flick off the safety and jerk the barrel in an instruction for him to move. “And this time I’ll aim higher.”

  He backs away, the hand at his side balling into a fist as the other holds his throat. He continues to cough, to splutter. “They’ll kill you.”

  “They’ll have to find me first.”

  I’m good at hiding. I can do it a little longer. Then once I finish the unresolved business with Jacob, I’ll run, because I’m good at that, too.

  I open the driver’s side door and slide inside, keeping my gaze on him the entire time.

  “Don’t be stupid.” He hunches, hands on knees, looking over at me from beneath his lashes. “There’s an easier way out of this.”

  “I appreciate the concern.” I close the door, start the ignition, and shove the car into drive. “But I can look after myself.”

  16

  Her

  I don’t know how I get back to my apartment. The drive is a whirlwind of adrenaline and hysteria until I’m sitting in his idling car in the loading zone in front of my building.

  I cut the ignition, leave the key fob in the console, then sprint inside. That asshole deserves to have his car stolen, and so much more.

  I enter the building pin code, shove open the door, and skip the elevator to sprint up the stairs two at a time.

  Once I’m inside my apartment, I focus on getting back outside as soon as possible. My knife is placed in a leather holster and attached to my bra. A switchblade is inserted into my left boot. Mace goes into the right. My gun is shoved into the pocket I’ve sewn inside my coat.

  I grab the stack of cash from the ice-cream tub in the freezer. Another from the sealed bag in the toilet cistern. Then the last from the hidden panel inside the bedside table bottom drawer.

  Anything of value goes into my backpack. My laptop, my money, a change of clothes, and most importantly, the few treasured items from my family that I sifted through burning embers to find. The rest has to stay.

  I place anything else I might want later—electronic devices, more weapons—into purple garbage bags and shove them down the disgusting trash chute in the hall. I can only hope they are still in the dumpster when I chance coming back to retrieve them.

  I’m not going to hang around and load a damn truck. I don’t even give myself five seconds to say goodbye to memories. Hunter isn’t messing around, and neither can I.

  I haul the pack onto my back and lock the door on my way out. I even grab my portable surveillance camera in the hall to take with me.

  I run three blocks, catch the first cab I find, and ask the driver to take me as far away as possible. He cuts across town, and I get him to drive in circles for almost an hour to make sure I’m not being followed before I get out.

  The sun starts to set as I walk miles and miles until I find a cheap motel with an easy escape route, pay cash in advance, and ask for a room that backs onto the alley.

  The click of the door is deafening as I close myself into my new home. I don’t bother to unpack. All I remove from the backpack is the surveillance camera, which I place in the window, the lens pointing outside.

  Coiling tendrils of self-loathing wrap around my ankles and hold me in place. Failure threatens to drag me under.

  All I can see is Hunter. All I can feel is his presence—his breath on my neck, his hands on my skin.

  “Fuck you,” I scream. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

  Someone bangs on the wall from the next room, and I scream louder. “Fuck you, too.”

  I drag my feet to the bed and slump onto the mattress. My dress tightens around me like a straitjacket, constricting and choking. I yank at the zipper, drag it down, and throw the material across the room.

  Sitting in my underwear doesn’t help either because I still feel dirty.

  Used.

  God, I hate him. I hate his lies. I hate what he stands for. And most of all, I hate that I can’t truly hate him at all. My building emotions aren’t born of anger. They’re weaker than
that. I’m consumed with betrayal and pathetic heartbreak.

  “Damn it to hell. I’m not this woman.” I flop back on the bed. I can’t be this woman.

  Someone this weak and useless won’t succeed in gaining revenge on the man who murdered her family. No. This woman will get herself killed by distraction. It’s a certainty.

  I shove a hand through my hair and stare at the ceiling.

  At least I’m not a murderer. My conscience is clean in that regard, and yet the relief hasn’t arrived. It felt so much better to have killed a man while another warmed my bed than it does now when I’m innocent and alone.

  How pitiful is that?

  I don’t even know myself anymore.

  I shake my head, but I’m unable to shake the train of thought.

  I crawl up to the pillows and try to ignore how he’s made me feel. I still have to get back to my apartment to retrieve the bags in the dumpster. I also have to get rent money to Brent somehow.

  For now, though, I need to rest and recharge. I didn’t sleep well last night, which is probably why I’m overly emotional.

  I roll to my side and close my eyes. On instant replay, all the time I spent with Hunter comes rushing back. His face, his comfort, his promises.

  All lies.

  Every single breath he took in my presence was fake. And I am no closer to Jacob, either. Everything has turned to shit.

  I drift, sleep dragging me under, then spitting me back out, over and over on a continuous loop. I dream about him. His voice murmurs, the words hazy. His mouth presses against mine and his lips curve in a smile while a possessive grip lands on my hip. I moan and clench my thighs.

  I want you. God, why do I still want you?

  He drifts away, disappearing into darkness.

  I dream of my family. Of the past. Of the Samaritan—Decker—and the other threatening man from this morning—Torian. I toss and turn and finally give up hope of energizing rest when the sun begins to pound the back of my lids.

  I groan, snuggle the pillow to my chest, and open my eyes.

  Bright light beams down on me from the partly opened curtain. I sit up, frown, and narrow my gaze on the surveillance camera now pointed in my direction.

  What…the…

  I push onto my elbow. There’s no way I focused the lens on the bed. I hadn’t been that tired. I faced it in the other direction. Outside.

  I flick back the covers and search for my phone. “Shit.” I should’ve had it right beside me.

  A sheet of paper swoops off the mattress, floating through the air with menacing grace as I cease moving. It drifts down to the pillows, laying gently beside me like a threatening plague.

  I glance around the room, my senses heightened as I search for anything out of place. There’s no movement, no unnatural sound. Nothing nudges my senses, only the camera bearing down on me and the note taunting me.

  I reach across to the pillows and retrieve the paper to read the neat script—Stop messing around and find a better place to hide. I snap a hand over my mouth to hold in my fear.

  He found me. He was in my fucking room.

  I scamper from the bed and do another scan of my surroundings, over the television, across the windowsill, my gaze pausing on the door. A steak knife protrudes from the wood, a piece of paper stabbed beneath the blade. I rush toward it and pull the note free.

  You’re beautiful when you sleep.

  My heart kicks, and I hate it. I hate it so much my tummy tumbles.

  I crumple the message in my fist and throw it to the floor. I scramble to collect my belongings, the video camera, my phone, my dress. I pull on the only set of clothes I packed—a pair of black workout leggings, a loose top, and an even baggier hoodie.

  I don’t waste time hanging around. I get out of there and rush to catch the bus pulling to a stop at the end of the block.

  “Please drive. Quick,” I beg the middle-aged man behind the wheel. “Someone is following me.”

  The damsel-in-distress gig works most of the time, and now is no exception as the driver hastens to close the door and pull away from the curb.

  Three people are on board, all of them watching me from their spaced positions throughout the rows of seats. A teenage girl. An elderly man. A woman in a business suit. I remain in the front of the bus, on a seat parallel with the aisle and close to the door.

  I can keep an eye on my surroundings while I pull out my phone and log into my surveillance account. The damn device has been silenced since the funeral, which means I didn’t get a notification when Hunter approached my room around four in the morning. He tested the door handle, then walked out of view.

  I fast forward the video until the image tilts, turns, then I’m in the picture, half-naked on the bed. He walks away from the camera, toward me. I don’t flinch in my sleep. I don’t even stir as he looks down at me, without malice or anger. He stares, watching, waiting, while I lie vulnerable and exposed.

  My heart crumples at the longing I see in his expression, even though I know it’s not really there. It’s a hallucination. A mirage. I glide my finger over the screen, touching what can no longer be truly touched and hate myself for the pathetic gesture.

  Why didn’t he hurt me? Why didn’t he tie me up and demand the information he wants so badly?

  He leans in, and I hold my breath as I watch him press his lips to mine.

  “Holy shit.” It wasn’t a dream. He kissed me in my sleep, and I kissed him back.

  Why? I don’t understand his intent. Am I supposed to believe his actions are some sort of truce? Did he change the camera angle to showcase his incredible acting skills?

  He places his notes around the room, not tiptoeing, with casual self-assurance, then he glances at the camera and those eyes meet mine.

  Why is he doing this to me? Why am I letting him?

  He keeps reeling me in, sinking his hooks into the vulnerable parts I thought I’d strengthened.

  “Pull over at the next stop, please,” I instruct the driver.

  I log out of the feed, delete the app, and place my cell on the seat as the bus veers to the curb of an unfamiliar street.

  “Thank you.” I haul my pack onto my back and stand, leaving my phone behind. If Hunter placed a tracker in my cell, he could enjoy the excursion the day would bring, because I have no plans to participate in his game anymore.

  I need to feel whole again. Free.

  And so I run.

  17

  Her

  I run for months. Well, it’s actually only four weeks, but it feels like forever. Every time I crash in a new location, he finds me, and he always leaves a note.

  Most of the time his messages are playful—You’re not good at this, are you? I like those pajamas. I'll see you tomorrow.

  And sometimes his words cut to the heart of me—When this is over, you’re mine.

  The dictatorship isn’t as offensive as it should be. Nothing about this seems as offensive as it should be. Yet again, I’ve become a willing participant in his game.

  I fall asleep each night with growing anticipation. I wake every morning to heart-pounding excitement. I search for his messages like an attention-starved fool, and each and every time I find one, my stomach soars.

  At least it had, until five days ago.

  That was when I extended the playing field and fled to a small bed and breakfast in Eagle Creek. He didn’t follow. There hasn’t been one note. Not a single word.

  He’s either lost interest, or something or someone made him stop.

  “Are you thinking about him again, pet?”

  I glance to my right, at Betty, the elderly lady who owns the bed and breakfast. She’s kind enough. Smart, too. But her intuition is on-point, which makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. If she didn’t cook like a master chef and feed me like I’d been homeless all my life, I would’ve cut and run after my first night.

  “I’m not thinking about anyone.” I rest my elbows on her porch railing and glance o
ut at the glowing lights of Eagle Creek. It’s nice here. Quiet. Which makes it difficult to dodge thoughts of Hunter.

  “Have it your way.” She moves to stand beside me, taking the same stance—elbows on the railing, her gaze straight ahead staring out into the night. “You’ve lost your hope, though. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Damn woman can’t even see my eyes at the moment. It’s dark out, and I’m not looking in her direction. Still, she’s right.

  What if Hunter has grown tired of playing?

  The answer shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t even ponder the question. Only I do. On repeat. All day. All night.

  “Who needs hope when I can smell blueberry pie?” I shoot her a glance and raise a brow. “Hmm? You’re going to feed me again, aren’t you?”

  She chuckles, her face gaining a mass of enviable laugh lines. This woman has experienced a lot of joy. Every single one of those wrinkles is a testament to her happiness. “I certainly will… If you promise to try to find that hope you showed up here with.”

  I sigh and turn back to the night. “It wasn’t hope. It was a game.” A silly challenge I spent too many nights playing.

  “I know hope when I see it, and yours wasn’t the type to revolve around a career or family. It was the type of love-filled hope that can only be inspired by a man.”

  Love?

  Now that is a word capable of slamming the brakes on any conversation, as far as I’m concerned. “Did you get lost in the liquor cabinet again?”

  She snickers. “Maybe. But I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “My life is too complicated for love. Or hope, for that matter.” In my chest, there is a void where both emotions should be. An abyss. “It’s just not for me.”

  “With that attitude, I’m sure you’re right.” She pats my shoulder with a gentle hand. “Now, how about that pie?”

  “Yes, please.” I’ll agree to anything that will get her meddling insight out of my life. “Want me to make the green tea?”