Page 63 of Hunted to the Altar
I wanted to scoff, to dismiss his words as another manipulative ploy. But the weight in his voice gave me pause. It wasn’t the boast of a man trying to win an argument. It was something darker, something raw.
"Then why do this to me?" I asked, my voice cracking despite my best efforts. "Why trap me here?"
Samuel leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he clasped his hands together. "Because I refuse to lose you, too."
The intensity of his words sent a shiver down my spine. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. There it was again—that mix of compulsion and something that almost felt like narcissistic love, twisting together in a way that made my head spin.
And against all logic, a small, traitorous part of me wondered: Could I bear this? Could I endure Samuel’s darkness if it meant never feeling that depth of devotion from anyone else? The thought terrified me almost as much as it thrilled me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Nina
The fire crackledbehind the grate, but its warmth never reached me. It was a distant thing, more memory than heat, flickering faintly against the silence that had taken up residence in this house.
I sat in the wheelchair Samuel ordered for me, though I suspected he found it offensive to look at. I hadn't moved from this spot in two hours, maybe three. Not since the cramping began.
A cold cup of coffee sat on the table beside me, untouched.
My hands rested in my lap, still. The scars on my wrists were pale now, nearly healed, but still angry-looking when they caught the firelight. Faint reminders of another kind of captivity.
And yet, they paled in comparison to the one he left when he pulled the trigger.
He’d only shot one knee. Just the right. One deliberate,precision-crafted punishment. Enough to stop me from running. Enough to make me crawl, if I ever dared again.
It wasn’t about killing me.
It never had been. It was about keeping me right here—docile, cowed, his. And now, inside me, something else stirred. Something that hadn’t asked to be here. Something I hadn’t chosen.
A pregnancy neither of us had planned, but both knew about.
A child conceived without consent.
His child.
Another wave of nausea twisted through my gut, tighter this time. I gritted my teeth and pressed a palm against my abdomen.
It had been like this for days. Cramping. Spotting. Unease that wasn’t just hormonal—it was instinct.
Something was wrong.
The sound of footsteps—hard, measured—cut across the hallway floor, steady as judgment.
Samuel.
I didn’t turn to look at him as he entered the room. I didn’t have to. His presence was a pressure system all on its own.
He wore black, as usual. His shirt collar was open. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. He looked like power and violence and barely concealed obsession.
His eyes met mine immediately, sharp and searching.
"You didn’t eat," he said.
"I wasn’t hungry."
Samuel didn’t like that answer.
"You’re not just eating for yourself anymore," he said, stepping closer. "You need to take care of?—"
