Page 28 of Hunted to the Altar
Samuel
The penthouse hummedwith an unnatural stillness, broken only by the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. I sat in my study, the dim light of the desk lamp casting shadows that stretched like claws across the polished wood. In front of me, a glass of scotch sat untouched. I stared at it as if it might contain the answers to questions I didn’t dare ask aloud. My mind drifted to her, as it always did.
My little bunny was in the other room, locked behind a closed door so she couldn’t hop away. I untied her so her arms wouldn’t be sore when she woke up. I could feel her presence, even through the walls. Every step she took, every breath, every rustle of fabric reached me like the pull of a tide I couldn’t resist. I’d made a career out of control—control of my environment, control of my emotions, control of my enemies. But with her, control felt like a tenuous thread stretched too tight, ready to snap.
She was chaos in human form, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to tame her or let her consume me entirely.
I picked up the glass, swirling the amber liquid, but didn’t drink. She was pacing again. I imagined her in the guest room, her curls wild around her face, her hands clenched into fists as she tried to think of a way to escape. The thought brought a smirk to my lips. She didn’t realize yet that there was no escaping me. No matter how fast she ran or how clever her plans, I would always find her.
The glass made a soft clink as I set it down, and I rose to my feet. My movements were deliberate, measured. The familiar rhythm of my steps calmed the restless energy in my chest as I made my way to the guest room. I didn’t bother to knock. The door creaked open, and she froze mid-step, her eyes wide and wild like a cornered animal.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” I said, leaning casually against the doorframe.
Her glare could have cut through steel. “Maybe I’m trying to wear a hole in the wall so I can crawl out of this prison.”
I chuckled, the sound low and rumbling in the quiet room. “Creative. But futile.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, her anger radiating off her in waves. “You can’t keep me here forever.”
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. The click of the latch made her flinch, and a flicker of satisfaction coursed through me. I liked that she was afraid. Not because I wanted her to suffer, but because fear meant she understood the stakes.
“Forever’s a long time,” I said, my voice calm. “But long enough to keep you safe.”
“Safe?” she spat, the word dripping with venom. “Is that what you call this? Locking me away, stripping me of my freedom? That’s not safety, Samuel. That’s a cage.”
I moved closer, my gaze locking onto hers. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”
Her lips parted, but no retort came. The silence stretched between us, heavy and electric. I reached out, brushing a stray curl from her face. She flinched but didn’t pull away. My fingers lingered, tracing the line of her jaw as I studied her.
“You think you hate me,” I murmured. “But one day, you’ll understand. Everything I do is for you.”
Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “Don’t flatter yourself. You don’t know me. You don’t even know what I’ve been through.”
The words hit harder than they should have. She was right, of course. I didn’t know everything. But I knew enough. Enough to see the cracks she tried to hide, the strength she clung to like a lifeline. Enough to know that she haunted me in ways no one else ever had.
“Then tell me,” I said, my voice softer now. “Let me understand.”
Her eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding her expression. “Why? So you can use it against me?”
I sighed, stepping back to give her space. “Because I want to know you, Nina. The real you. Not just the survivor. Not just the fighter. I want to know everything.”
She didn’t respond, but the tension in her shoulders eased just slightly. It was enough. For now.
The next morning,I stood in the kitchen, the scent of coffee and freshly baked bread filling the air. Cooking was never something I enjoyed, but the ritual of it—the precision, the order—was soothing. My hands worked automatically, slicing fruit and sprinkling it on a plate. The arrangement had to be perfect, symmetrical. Anything less would grate against my nerves.
Nina appeared in the doorway, her movements hesitant. She wore a dress I’d bought for her, a simple navy blue thatcontrasted beautifully with her dark skin. The sight of her stole my breath, but I masked it with a smirk.
“Hungry?” I asked, sliding the plate toward her.
She eyed it warily, her arms crossed. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” I said, leaning against the counter. “Just breakfast.”
Her gaze lingered on the plate and, for a moment, I thought she might refuse out of sheer spite. But hunger won out, and she approached cautiously, sitting on the stool across from me. She picked up a piece of fruit, nibbling at it as if expecting it to be poisoned.
“You don’t trust me,” I said, more an observation than a question.
“Should I?” she shot back, her tone sharp.
