Page 112 of Hunting Pretty

No one coming to my side.

No one caring.

I started crawling toward my bathroom door, one arm gripped over my midsection, because it felt like otherwise my intestines were going to spill out.

On one shaking hand I tried to tug myself forward. My feet slid slowly across the rug, my knee-high socks snapping with static electricity that barely registered because of how dominating my cramps were.

Sweat broke out across my forehead and I panted between whimpers, but the bathroom appeared just as far away as it had before and I was completely spent.

Tears distorted the impossibly far away bathroom door. I felt completely helpless as I cried.

I heard my bedroom door open and I sobbed in relief. Ebony must have just gotten home.

“Ebony, please, I—”

But it was not my mother who entered my bedroom.

It was Scáth.

AVA

Scáth stood in my doorway, wearing his usual all-black ensemble, his figure almost blending into the shadows of the hall. His hood hung low over his dark hair, casting his brutally beautiful features in deep shadow.

He’d ditched his skeleton half-mask, so I could see his jaw was clenched, and his lips pressed into a hard, displeased line.

My heart pounded in my chest as I stared at him, the silence between us growing heavier by the second.

In some cloudy, paranoid corner of my mind, the idea slithered in.

He knows.

He knew that I was going to turn him in. He knew that I was about to betray him.

And he was here to kill me.

My breath hitched in my throat, the room suddenly too small, too tight.

I tried to remind myself that I wasn’t certain, that Ididn’t know what he was thinking—but my mind kept spiraling.

His cold gaze lingered on me too long, and every muscle in his body seemed coiled, ready to strike.

Just like he’d killed the attacker last night, as easily as snuffing out a flame, he was here to finish me.

The eye. The grotesque “gift” he’d left for me—it had been a test.

He’d wanted to see if I could handle the darkness, if I could accept him for what he truly was.

And I’d failed.

I would have screamed at the sight of him. But the pain was so bad all I could do was sob as I crawled across the carpet, trying to get away from him.

Scáth crossed the distance between us in two long strides.

I flinched as he squatted next to me, his familiar scent of musk, leather, and spice invading my nostrils.

But that tiny motion brought out a pained gasp as another invisible knife joined the dozen or so already sticking into my belly.

I wanted to scream at him to get it over with.

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