Page 195 of Hunting Pretty

The room around me came into view—dark, dank, with grimy walls and a flickering light overhead. I couldn’t see much from this angle, but I could tell it was a basement.

The air was stale, cold, and there was that unmistakable scent of dampness clinging to everything.

The dimly lit room was blurry, but I could see it was some sort of old cellar.

I blinked again and my vision cleared enough to make out wet, mossy stone bricks and a narrow staircase leadingup to darkness before nausea swept over me and I squeezed my eyes shut.

My chin fell to my chest where my heartbeat was reedy and erratic. My hair clung to my clammy cheeks as I tried to swallow down bitter bile rising in my throat.

Fuck, I was so tired. So fucking tired. I wanted desperately to give up, to lie down, but I was forced to remain on my knees thanks to my hands tied above my head.

Come on, Ava. Focus. Find a way out of here.

Craning my head, I squinted up at the thick fibrous rope hanging from a hook chained into the packed earth ceiling. The skin around my wrists was already raw and bleeding.

I tugged against the rope, testing it, and winced, the rope cutting into my wrists.

There was the tiniest amount of give. The knots looked too tight to undo. But I might be able to slip a hand out. But it’d fucking hurt.

I glanced over to the stairs that led up to the darkness.

Even if I could get my hands free, who knew what—or who—was waiting for me up there.

I was trapped.

Panic clawed at the back of my throat. If I lost it now, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

My heart was racing, my mind scrambling to catch up. I tried to slow my breathing, to think.

I had to stay calm. I had to figure out a way out of this, but with each passing second, the weight of the situation pressed down on me.

“H-Hello?” I called out with a croaky voice, my throat dry and cracking.

That was answered with a familiar laugh.

I blamed the lingering effects of the drugs for not seeing him sooner.

Cormac reclined in a simple wooden chair against the wall, balancing on the two back legs. He had his arms crossed over his dirtied cream fisherman sweater. Dried blood flaked on his cheek beneath his black eyepatch.

“Cormac,” I murmured, my brain struggling to comprehend. “Why are you doing this?”

I struggled to draw in a full breath with my arms above my head.

Cormac let the chair slam forward as he set his feet on the floor. The echoing sound felt like a hammer against my temples.

Cormac stood to his full height, the glare from the bare bulb above cutting his face into gruesome lines and shadows. “Can’t let a few stupid orphan girls bring everything down.”

I panted as a realization hit me. “Youtook Liath.”

Cormac laughed again, but this time it was higher pitched. Almost hysterical. Something had snapped in him, something wasn’t right.

I struggled against my shackles, but they only sliced deeper into my wrists.

“I would have,” he said. “Happily, really. Had the High Lord asked it of me.”

“The High Lord? You mean Dr. Vale.”

“Dr. Vale is just a puppet,” Cormac sneered. “A second-class citizen who would do anything for scraps. They’ve been dangling membership in front of his face for years.”

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