Page 200 of Hunting Pretty

He stepped over Cormac’s body like it was nothing more than a discarded piece of trash and stopped in front of me, his hood casting a shadow over his eyes.

But then I saw it—the skeleton mask covering his nose and mouth, the cold, ominous figure that had haunted me for so long.

Relief flooded my body, so fast and overwhelming it made my head spin. I should have known. I should have recognized those broad shoulders, that towering presence that consumed the space around him.

Scáth had found me.My stalker had found me.

He’d come to save me.

“Scáth!” I called out, tugging at the ropes. “Thank God you’re here.”

But he stood across the cellar, unmoving as my elation subsided. Something was wrong.

“Scáth?” I begged. “Answer me.”

He didn’t run to me. He didn’t call my name or rush to my side to release me.

A tingle of a deeper, darker fear prickled my skin.

He strode toward me, but something about the way he moved was all wrong. This wasn’t the lithe catlike grace I’d come to expect from Scáth.

Instead, he moved like a hulking giant, each step deliberate and heavy, as if he were forcing himself to take up more space than his body needed—like a living wall bearing down on me.

The relief that had flooded me when I thought I was being rescued evaporated, leaving a hollow emptiness in its wake.

My heart sank, dread curling in the pit of my stomach as he crouched in front of me, his forearms resting on his knees, his hooded eyes scanning my face.

I peered under his hood, but his eyes were in shadows. If I could just see his eyes, then I’d know it was him.

Usually, Scáth radiated raw emotion, an intensity that felt like heat rolling off him in waves, burning with fury or passion. But now? All I felt was cold.

An icy chill radiated from him, so stark and empty that it made my skin prickle. It wasn’t just unnatural forhim—it was unnatural for any human. A void, a gaping nothingness that sent shivers down my spine.

Why was he acting like this? So detached. So distant. The man before me felt like a stranger in Scáth’s skin.

“Ty?” I whispered, my voice barely audible, hoping, praying to see a flicker of the man I loved.

“Hello, Ava,” he replied, his voice low, devoid of warmth.

It wasn’t him. This wasn’t the man I knew. The tone, the coldness—it was all wrong.

Scáth’s voice was fire, crackling with life, with passion and danger. But his? His was just ice, sharp and empty.

And his scent was different—it wasn’t the familiar blend of leather and spice that used to cling to him.

Instead, the air around him carried something new, something darker. He smelled of musk and sandalwood, dark and earthy.

Scáth was like a roaring crackling fire, ready to consume me and anything in his path. But this man, he was the ground opening up, a crack in the moist earth so deep and dark I’d never climb out.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something. It took a second for my eyes to focus on it.

A syringe.

“What are you—?”

He plunged the needle into my neck, his unbothered, cold demeanor unchanging.

I let out a scream. Not at the needle, although the liquid stung as it was pushed into my skin. But at the betrayal.

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