Page 91 of Hunting Pretty

He looked deadly serious. Did he actually think in some twisted way that he was my boyfriend? Or was he just presenting a cover to Cormac?

And why the fuck did I kindalikethe sound of it.

My boyfriend… my psycho stalker who’s name I don’t even know.

My ex turned to me. “Yourboyfriend?”

I straightened and placed a hand on my stalker’s chest. Damn. It was firm as fuck.

“Yes.” I lifted my chin. “My boyfriend…Scáth.”

I almost winced at the name I’d given him.

Scáthmeant shadow in Irish.

I swear the corner of my stalker’s lip lifted in a tiny smirk. He was amused.

Cormac let out a scoff. “Since when did you start dating the help?”

I guess that’s what Cormac saw when he looked at my stalker.

His black leather jacket and black jeans weren’t designer brands.

His hair was a little too long and a little too messy, unlike the clean-cut preppy styles that gentlemen favored.

His body was a little too muscular, too thick, too brutal-looking to be mistaken for the lean figures that the Darkmoor rowing and polo boys developed.

And there was no mistaking the dangerous-looking ink that curled out over his collar and sleeves.

No ‘good ol’ boy’ would dare to stain their pretty, well-buffed skin with something as primitive as a tattoo, for goodness’ sake.

I’ve seen grown men wither under Cormac’s judgmental sneer.

My stalker—Scáth—merely looked back at my ex as if he were an annoying bug he was going to skewer onto a toothpick and torture before he squashed.

“Touch her again,” Scáth warned, his voice hard and brutal as he brandished the knife I’d dropped in the hallway, “and I will cut off your hands and feed them to you, finger by bloody finger.”

My ex blanched, his eyes widening at the glinting blade, his cheeks going pale like he was about to faint.

He should be scared. The things this man can do with a knife…

A thrill rushed through me. At the violence Scáth was threatening on my asshole ex, at the overprotective way he held me, at the memory of what he did to me the last time he had a knife in his hand.

Wetness trickled into my panties.

God, I was fucked up.

Scáth tucked me even closer to him, his hold possessive. “OnlyIget to touch her.”

I gasped as his words unlocked a memory that crashed over me.

AVA

Ibit my lower lip to fight back the prickle of tears in my eyes as pebbles burrowed into my knees and palms. My torn skin, hot with fresh blood, stung terribly.

A tiny sob escaped as I tried to push myself up, thin arms shaking, only to collapse back down.

A pair of strong hands caught me.

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