Page 141 of Hunting Pretty

The door slammed shut, cutting him off from me, and my knees buckled.

That would be the last time I saw him for years.

I gasped, my breath coming in short, erratic bursts as my flashback flickered behind my eyes—Ty being arrested, handcuffs biting into his wrists, him screaming for me as they led him away.

I felt like I was watching it all over again, helpless to stop it.

A cold dread settled in the pit of my stomach. Deep down, I knew whom he’d killed andwhy. I didn’t want to admit it, but I could feel the truth clawing its way to the surface, threatening to choke me.

Lisa’s voice cut through the haze, soft but concerned. “Ava… do you want to stop?”

I shook my head, my fingers trembling as they hovered over the mouse.

“No.” My voice was barely above a whisper, but the resolve behind it was solid. I had to know. I needed to see it for myself.

I clicked on the next article, my heart racing as the headline appeared.

Wealthy Biologist Killed by His Own Son

I skimmed through the text, my vision blurring with each word, my pulse pounding in my ears.

In a shocking turn of events, Adam Donahue, a man of distinguished lineage and one of Ireland’s most esteemedbiologists, was found dead in his country estate under suspicious circumstances.

Authorities have confirmed that Donahue, 48, was poisoned, and his son, Tynan Donahue, 17, has been taken into custody in connection with the crime.

Sources close to the investigation report that Tynan Donahue has refused to speak since his arrest.

The words swirled in front of me, heavy with the weight of their meaning.

My mind reeled.Poisoned.His own father.

I could barely breathe, the horror of it tightening around my chest like a vise. But then again, I knew this already, hadn’t I?

A younger Scáth stood there, towering over the body of a man, his broad shoulders tense but his breaths steady, controlled.

My gaze lowered to the unmoving figure at his feet, my voice dying in my throat. The face was turned away, but I didn’t need to see it to know who it was.

Mr. Donahue. The professor. Ty’s da.

I’d never seen a human skin so pale. It wasn’t just bloodless. It was translucent.

“Is he…?” I dared to ask, my voice barely a whisper.

My heart hammered in my chest, but it wasn’t fear that gripped me. Not horror.

I looked up at Scáth, and he met my eyes with that same cold, unrepentant stare.

“He won’teverhurt you again.”

I sucked in a breath.

Scáth killed his own father—for me. But why?

I kept scrolling down the article. A grainy black-and-white photo appeared, showing Adam Donahue standingproudly, accepting an award from the Irish president. The image was blurred and faded, but it hit me like a punch to the gut.

My breath caught in my throat, and I recoiled, my fingers snatching off the mouse as if it were poisonous.

A buried part of meknewhim.

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