Page 26 of The Hunter
I ended the call and leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes.
What the hell was I doing?
Ariana wasn’t innocent. She wasn’t mine to protect. She was the young, spoiled wife of the man who murdered Sarah. Asociety darling who wore blood diamonds to galas and smiled for cameras while the world burned around her.
That’s who she was.
I had to remind myself that whatever softness I thought I saw in her, whatever part of me wanted to believe there was more to her than the roles she played, was nothing but weakness.
I learned long ago to bury any weakness far below the surface.
And that was what I needed to do again.
Chapter Twelve
Ariana
I tried to move, but my limbs felt weighed down. My eyelids peeled open with effort, my vision swimming in and out of focus. Everything around me was too still. Too quiet. Like the moment right before disaster struck.
My body felt heavy. Not in the way it did after a restless night of pretending to sleep beside Victor while every sound, every shift of the mattress sent a jolt of adrenaline through me.
This was different. I felt like I’d been asleep for days and it still wasn’t enough.
I tried to remember how I’d gotten to bed. Had I even made it upstairs last night? I couldn’t recall. Maybe all those sleepless nights had finally caught up with me. Maybe without Victor looming over me, my body had seized the opportunity to get some much-needed rest.
I should have been bitter or angry over the notion that the important “business” he needed to attend to personally was most likely another woman.
I wasn’t.
As much as I hated the idea that Victor could be hurting someone else, I couldn’t deny the relief that filled me every timehe went away. If his attention was on someone else, it meant it wasn’t on me, even if for only a short while.
I shifted, trying to ease the stiffness from my limbs. Slowly, the haze in my brain began to lift, and I blinked up at the ceiling. Wooden beams, like tree trunks holding up the sky.
I sat up fast, my heart going into overdrive as panic coursed through me.
This wasn’t my bedroom.
Gone were the sleek, modern lines Victor preferred. No angular furniture or marble floors.
Instead, the walls were made of deep logwood, and a massive stone fireplace stood beyond the four-poster bed that looked hand crafted.
How the hell did I get here? Wherewashere?
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to piece together the last thing I could remember.
Visiting my mother. The way her mind had flickered in and out like a faulty lightbulb. Her hands trembling. The nonsense she'd muttered about a man with a raven tattoo, how he was coming for me.
Then going home, feeling weighed down by the unbearable helplessness of my mother’s slow deterioration. Working in the garden, desperate for a distraction from my life.
Then the black bird watching me from the branches.
After that, there were a few flashes, disjointed and eerie.
The hum of an engine. Cold glass against my cheek. Trees blurring past like angry brushstrokes on canvas. A man’s silhouette.
Gasping, I darted my gaze down to my body and blew out a relieved breath when I saw I was still fully dressed. Jeans. T-shirt. Socks. No sneakers.
But also… No blood.
