Page 113 of Hunting Pretty

If he was going to kill me, then just fucking kill me.

I just had to hope he wouldn’t mutilate me or torture me first the way he did with Cormac.

His arms went around me and he lifted me from the floor.

I could barely protest. Whatever he’d decided to do to me, I had no fight against him. He’d picked the right moment to turn from my stalker into my killer.

His hand was surprisingly gentle as he cradled the back of my head and lowered me to the bed.

He tucked my sheets around my body, brushed a strand of damp hair from my forehead, and disappeared.

What was he doing? Getting a weapon? He seemed to like knives a lot.

The pain felt inescapable and nausea swept through me. But at least it’d all be over soon.

My stalker made a blurry figure over me when he returned. He held out two white pills, a glass of water in his other hand.

I stared at the pills.

Was he going to poison me to death? Or just put me to sleep so he could do God knows what to me?

He said nothing. Just kept his hands in place and waited.

Cheek pressed against the edge of the mattress, I glanced up at him, trying to read his intensions.

But my vision pulsed in time with my racing heart and his eyes were hidden in the shadow of his hood.

A particularly brutal cramp had me grasping at the pills. If he wanted to knock me out, or worse, I wasn’t in any state to stop him. This way would probably be less horrifying than a pillow over my face.

I swallowed the pills without water. I took enough to not need it. And it seemed at least a tiny bit resistant, though my stalker didn’t seem to care at all.

He placed the untouched glass on my bedside table and left again, this time going out of the room completely.

I remained curled in a ball, waiting for the pills, whatever they were, to kick in.

He returned.

I struggled feebly as he pulled back the covers and lifted my shirt.

I wanted to do more, to put up a fight he’d at least remember, but every time I moved, pain lashed across my stomach.

I felt pressure against my belly. Oh God, was he going to disembowel me? I’d seenBraveheart. That was one of the most painful ways to go.

I tried to push his hands away, but he was too strong.

I tried to scream, but nothing came from my throat but a hoarse moan. “No, please.”

Then I felt the lovely heat.

He was pressing a hot water bottle to my stomach.

I was stunned into silence as I blearily watched him tuck in the duvet over me and tuck me in, slipping the sheets gently beneath the outline of my body. He did this all the way down to my feet, each gentle caring touch sending warm sensations through me.

Cormac hadn’t ever done that for me.

Even Ebony hadn’t either.

His tenderness made tears roll unrestrained from my eyes. The pain and the fear had wrecked my emotional barriers.

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