Page 103 of The Hunted
“Just because statistics say one thing, doesn’t mean there aren’t outliers.” Silva shifted forward, placing her gloved hands over Amra’s forearms. They were practically nose to nose.
“Most women use nonviolent methods—poison and such—because we’re taught to sit still and be quiet. So when we rage, it’s quietly still. We hold it in, bury it until it consumes us. Yes, our rage burns bright, but it’s rarely ever violent.”
Silva smiled when Amra tried to lean away from her, but there was nowhere to go. “Tell me, Amra. What do you think happens when that rage finally hits its breaking point? Society seems to think women have this endless supply of patience and tolerance, but they don’t know what’s been building.”
She ran a gloved hand down Amra’s cheek, enjoying the way she flinched even though her eyes were full of fire. If she was scared, she already made peace with her fate and she wasn’t going to go down without kicking and screaming.
Good.
“Tell me, Amra. What happens when we finally hit our limit?” she whispered the question.
“We break.” Amra’s breath held steady.
“We break,” Silva repeated. “And sometimes that break requires blood. Our violence demands to be seen and heard. So while I know you’re the brains here and you’re counting on statistics to rule things out, I want you to know.” She heard the sound of heavy boots coming toward the cabin and chuckled. Santino wasn’t hiding his arrival.
“I’ve been through too much to sit idle and let my violence be small,” Silva continued. “My own screams were no longer loud enough. I needed others to scream too.” She pushed off Amra as soon as she heard the knob turn.
“It looks like our guest of honor has finally arrived.” Silva stood behind Amra, placing her hands on her shoulder. She tried to brace herself. This was the first time she’d seen him since the café, but one look into his dark eyes and her body damn near crumbled.
He wore boots, denim jeans, and a black long-sleeve compression shirt that made her mouth water. Her eyes traveled from his boots up to his face, and she scowled when she saw the smirk teasing his full lips.
“Princess, princess, princess.” Santinotsked.
She bristled under the pet name, even as her body practically beamed like a peacock. The gruffness in his voice reminded her of how it felt to have him in between her legs, kissing her and making her scream for him with his tongue.
“I still hate that pet name,” she grumbled.
“That’s the problem.” His gaze lingered on her face. “You don’t hate it.”
She couldn’t read him now. He was closed off to her. But she wondered what he saw—what he was trying to remember about their time as Shea and Saint.
“I remember the braids,” he whispered. There was a question in his statement, like he wasn’t sure if he did or not.
When she was younger the braids were for an occasion she’d rather not think about now. As she got older, she only ever put the braids in when she was going after her mark. She had a lot of hair and with the loose curls, she shed a lot. The easiest thing to do was braid it before she put a cap on.
“What else do you remember?” she demanded. She still didn’t believe he couldn’t recall their time together.
His gaze flicked down toward Amra. “Not enough. I see you brought a stray home?”
Amra flinched at the comment. “I didn’t bring it home. She wandered in here alone because she’s obsessed with you.”
“I am—” Amra started.
Silva patted her on the head to keep her quiet. “Shh, the adults are talking. We have to figure some things out, like in what ways can I make Santino pay for his transgression.” She leaned down, bringing her lips to Amra’s ear. “Do you want to hear him scream? I mean, you came all this way.”
Santino chuckled. “The only one who’s going to be screaming is you, princess.” He took a step forward. “And not in the way you like, but I’m sure you’ll sound just as pretty.”
Heat infused her body. Her mind picked that comment to hone in on and remind her how good they’d been together—how much she enjoyed the way he knew her body and gave her pleasure in a way that felt like a reawakening to what it meant to belong to someone.
“Santino,” she warned when he took another step forward.
“You still say my name like it’s both a curse and a prayer.” His gaze flicked to Amra and back to her. “You’re going to have to run, princess. I’ll give you a head start to be generous.”
Silva opened her mouth to tell him she wasn’t running from him, but when his gaze flicked to Amra a third time she understood. Whatever was happening between them couldn’t happen here. Whoever survived—she would—needed to spin a believable story, one that didn’t look like the two of them fist-fighting in his cabin while Amra was sat strapped to a chair.
“For the record, I’m not running because I’m scared.” She pushed off Amra. Her hands flexed at her sides, and she bounced on the balls of her feet. She didn’t want to turn her back to him, not sure if he’d be a sore loser and throw something at her.
Santino raised a gloved hand. “Before you run, question. Did you get them all?”
