Page 97 of Hunter

A wave of panic crashes over me, leaving me breathless. I clutch my chest, my heart racing so fast, it feels like it’s going to burst. My lips tremble, a scream clawing its way up my throat, but I force it back down.

Andrei.

He would know what to do. He would save us. My thumb hovers over his contact, but I don’t press the button. He won’t get here in time. I don’t even know where in the world he is right now. Jenny gave me twenty minutes.

My shoulders slump, and a defeated sigh escapes me. I close my eyes and take slow, deep breaths, forcing the rising tide of terror to recede.

This is up to me.

There’s no cavalry coming, no safety net to catch me if I fall. Luca is missing—probably locked away somewhere, or worse, dead. I’m on my own.

“You can do this,” I whisper to myself. The words feel hollow, a lie I’m clinging to because I don’t have any other choice.

“Sophia, are you alright?” Elena’s voice cuts through the haze.

I turn to look at her. She should be scared, and she is—her face pale, her hands trembling. But her guilt isn’t enough. It will never be enough. She had choices. She could have told Andrei everything. Instead, she chose to side with Jenny.

I feel the rage bubbling up inside me, hot and uncontrollable. I latch onto it, letting it consume me. Anger and fury are better than fear. They’re weapons, sharp and unyielding, and I’ll need them tonight.

I hear Elena’s hesitant footsteps approaching. Does she not understand how to follow instructions? She followed Jenny’s orders to the letter, so why the hell can’t she listen to me?

I snap my eyes open, pinning her in place with a glare. She freezes, wide-eyed, her entire body trembling. “I was just trying to make sure you’re okay,” she stammers.

“Okay?” I laugh dryly, the sound harsh and bitter. “Am I okay?” I pretend to think it over, mocking her. “No, Elena, I’m not okay. And I don’t have time to sit here and discuss my problems. Problems you set in motion.”

I stand, towering over her, the gun in my hand heavy but steady. Her mouth opens—probably to say sorry again—but I’m done with apologies.

“Don’t you dare say sorry. I don’t want to hear it from you,” I snap, my voice cutting through her sobs. “What I do want is for you to turn around.”

Elena doesn’t move. Her body trembles as she stares at me wide-eyed. My patience snaps, and I press the gun to her chest, narrowing my eyes. “I said, walk.”

My scream sends her stumbling back, nearly tripping in her haste to obey. Once she turns around, I lead her to a closet, yank the door open, and shove her inside. She slams her hands against the door, crying and begging me to let her out.

It’s not enough. Closing the door won’t stop her. She’ll escape, no matter how fragile she looks. Fear and desperation can give anyone strength. I know that better than anyone.

I head to my medication cabinet, grabbing a vial of midazolam and a syringe. The sedative will keep her under long enough for Andrei to get here. I draw up three milligrams—more than enough for her petite frame—and grab a blanket and pillow before returning to the closet.

When I open the door, Elena is curled up on the floor, rocking back and forth, her cheeks stained with tears. My chest tightens for a moment. Deep down, I know she didn’t have many choices. Her life with our father was horrible, and Jenny left her no way out. But sympathy doesn’t erase her actions.

I crouch in front of her, syringe in hand. Her eyes widen, and panic flashes across her face. She scrambles back, flailing to push me away, but I press the gun against her temple, freezing her mid-struggle.

The fight drains out of her.

“No more running, Elena. It’s time you face your demons,” I say quietly, sliding the needle into her arm. As the drug takes effect, her body slumps. I settle her against the wall, covering her with the blanket and tucking the pillow under her head.

“It’s time I face mine too,” I whisper.

I step out, lock the door, and pull out my phone, dialing Andrei.

“Hey,” he answers on the first ring. “I was just about to call you. Is everything alright?”

“Come get your wife,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “She’s locked in my office closet.”

There’s a long pause. “…What?”

I cringe. This sounds like the plot of a soap opera. “I don’t have time to explain the whole story.”

“Wait, wait. Back it up. Tell me everything—not the Cliff Notes version,” Andrei says, his voice tight with confusion.

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