Page 24 of The Huntress and Her Hound

Shutting the door, I spin around and brace against the counter, clamping my eyes closed again. I’m met with visions of Jude, looming over me. Suddenly, he’s all I can smell, see, and feel, the mental image coming to life around me. My heart pounds at the sight, a weird sense of longing sweeping through my body.

What the fuck?

Go away, Jude.

GO. AWAY.

I slam a fist down against the white countertop, and wince as pain sears through my hand. I set the glass down on the counter and pull out my vial of GHB, pouring the entirety of the contents into the glass. I just want Samuel to fucking die so I can feel better. Glaring down into the liquid, I force a deep breath as I slosh the drink around.

You know the drill. Go out, come onto him, and give him the drink.

My eyes lift to the mirror, and I’m shook by what I see. Dark circles appear painted beneath my hazy blue eyes. My Bloodmoon shade of lipstick is smeared, and in the harsh light of the bathroom, I look as crazy as I feel.

What does this guy even see in me?

‘Nothing. He sees nothing,’ the voice coos in my head.

Moisture pools against my bottom lid, and I blink it away. I’m cracking at the seams.

‘Then take your power back, you pitiful little girl.’

I cock my head far enough to the right to crack my neck and then do the same to the left. Fuck them all. Fuck. Them. All. And fuck Jude. Fuck the man who did this to me. I sweep up the glass from the counter and rip the bathroom door open.

“What were you doing in there?” Samuel stands in the threshold, his eyes narrowed. “It sounded like something fell.”

“Yeah, I’m just a little drunk,” I force out a giggle, and then brush past him. “But I’m feeling a lot better now.”

“Hmm,” he mumbles behind me. I feel his presence drawing near, and I spin, grabbing his tie before he can get me. A portion of the drink spills over onto my wrist, and I inwardly panic.

“Sit down,” I tell him, pushing him toward the couch.

He gives me a funny look, but does as I say, taking a seat on the edge of the sofa. I straddle him and his hands slide down my waist to my ass, squeezing it.

“Here,” I tip the glass to his lips.

He turns his head. “No thanks. I made it for you.”

I lean down, my lips brushing his earlobe. “But you’re not as drunk as me.”

He chuckles darkly. “I don’t want to be.”

“Oh come on,” I whine, giving him my best pout. “Just do it for me. Please.”

Samuel tips his head back, meeting my gaze. “I said no. I’ll make my own damn drink if I want something.” With that, he swats the drink from my hand, sending it crashing to the floor. I stare at the dark, now-wet spot on the carpet.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

Ripping my eyes from it, I try to act surprised and slightly wounded. “Well, that was unnecessary, Samuel.”

“I made that drink for you.”

My brows raise as he shoves me off of him so hard, I fall, once again, to the floor. “I’m s-s-sorry?” I try to find the right words. I’ve never had one refuse to take my drink. However, then it hits me.

I didn’t see him make it.

‘Stupid, stupid girl. He was going to drug you.’

It’s been tried before, but I usually insist on making my own after it happens. I was so caught up in my head tonight, I nearly let it slip. I nearly became the victim. Again.

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