Page 46 of Hunted to the Altar
Didn’t want the way his scent curled around me like comfort instead of control. Didn’t want to admit that the monster who ripped me from my life now held me like something fragile he didn’t know how to keep.
My stomach twisted. I should’ve pulled away. I didn’t.
Instead, I looked up.
And for the first time, I didn’t see the predator. I saw the man who stood under cold water just to wake up beside me. The one who washed blood off my skin without blinking. The one who watched me too closely, held me too tightly, but maybe—just maybe—had already buried a part of himself inside me.
“I should hate you,” I said, almost to myself.
His hand came up, brushing the hair from my cheek. That thumb again—so soft, so slow. “But you don’t.”
“No,” I breathed. “Not right now.”
The air between us grew heavier. My heart beat a little too fast, and I couldn’t tell if it was fear or something worse.
Longing.
He leaned down, and for a split second, I thought he’d kiss me. But he just touched his forehead to mine and let out a breath like I was the thing holding him together.
Like he didn’t know what to do with me.
And I didn’t know how to react to that either.
But in the strobing lights and soft rhythm of the dance floor, I let myself feel something dangerous.
It all felt like too much. I let myself feel him like he commanded me to. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like drowning. I couldn’t stay here. If I did, I would catch real feelings for this man.
And then I would be stuck, forever.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Samuel
The low thudof the front door echoed behind us as we stumbled inside, still high off the night’s dark rhythm. My hands stayed greedy, roaming over Nina’s hips as I pressed her against the wall, my mouth claiming hers again and again.
We didn’t make it to the bedroom. We barely made it past the foyer.
Clothes peeled off in a frantic trail to the living room, where I took her again, harder, rougher, needing to mark every inch of her skin as mine.
And she gave it to me — all of it. Her body, her cries, her surrender.
Later, tangled up on the floor with her body boneless against mine, sleep crept in slow and heavy. I fought it at first, wanting to stay awake and watch her chest rise and fall. But exhaustion won.
I woke to an unsettling quiet.
No birdsong, no distant hum of cars outside. Just the house — too still, too silent.
Something was wrong.
I could feel it in my bones.
My every step echoed faintly through the marble halls of the house, the sound a stark reminder of the stillness. The strange wrongness hanging in the air, like a predator sensing its prey’s unease.
And now, Iknewwhy.
The signs were all there: The quietness, the shadows cast at odd angles from doors left slightly ajar. They weren’t mistakes — they were breadcrumbs.
The little clues led me to the garage, and with every step, my anger burned hotter, more consuming. The betrayal cut deeper than I wanted to admit, but the fury was a familiar salve. It masked the pain, sharpening my focus to a razor’s edge.
