Page 65 of Hunted, Season Three

“What do you meanif?”Her brow scrunches together.“That’stwiceyou’ve said if.”

I click a few more options to officially submit the appointment change.“It’s not exactly something we’ve talked about.”

“You wearin’ a dress?”

“Us having any kind of ceremony where I wouldneeda dress.”

“Pretty sure they’re gonna do whateveryouwanna do, sweetie.”My focus cuts back to her.“So, the question is what doyouwanna do?”

It’s impossible not to shift in my seat over the investigation into my own wants.

Desires.

Dreams.

Things I never fully envisioned due to never believing they really mattered.

That’s what being hunted does to you.

You develop a mental system in which the only future you concern yourself with consists of the hours directly in front of you.

How many miles you need to go before gas or sleep?

How many hours of sleep can you actually survive without.

Can you wait to pee or eat until you’ve crossed county lines where you can get lost in a crowd instead of being the lone customer remembered when someone comes asking because you know without a doubt that they will come asking.

Being able to have wants…andwantingmy men was so foreign.

So unexpected.

So unbelievable that even now…sometimes…I don’t believe it’s real…

Thatwe’rereal.

Engaging in anything andeverythingI desire whether that’s being spanked or double fucked or sticking my tongue in someone’s ass while they’re bent over the hood of a car, they should be working on is equally inconceivable most days.

But dreaming?

Actually dreaming?

Actually dreamingof a wedding and family and future where there’s no reason to ever look over my shoulder again?

That’s still something I – truthfully – struggle to keep in the do column.

Even with Brad dead.

Maybe because I can’t ignore this gut twisting feeling that everything’s not over.

Maybe because that feeling grows exponentially stronger each passing day that we don’t hear a fucking word about his monster of a mother.

God, the woman would give Freddie Krueger night terrors.

“This is a lot of silence.”Posie points her index digit at me and rolls it in a circle.“And it’s making me sad.”

I do my best to brush off the discomfort that’s dropped onto my shoulders with a crooked grin.“It’s my wedding.I can be sad if I want to.”

“I don’t think weddings are supposed to be sad.”

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