Page 124 of Gilded Locks
Silence.
The sudden absence of sound was somehow worse than his haunting taunts. Her heart didn’t slow. It accelerated, rabbit-fast, hummingbird-frantic.
She pressed her back against the glass wall, the cool surface a shocking contrast to the humid air, to her overheated skin. Condensation formed where her body touched the glass, outlining her in moisture.
Where was he?
Seconds crawled by like hours, each one an eternity. She strained to hear anything over the hum of the fountain, over the drip-drip-drip of condensation falling from leaves like rain in a miniature jungle. Over her own pulse thundering in her ears like drums, like thunder, like the end of the world approaching.
Maybe he’d gone the wrong direction. Maybe she’d actually?—
The solarium door opened.
Not with a crash or a bang, but with a soft click that might as well have been a gunshot for how it made her entire body jerk. The soft snick of the latch seemed to echo forever in the humid space, bouncing off glass walls, reverberating through her bones.
Marigold’s hand flew to her mouth, palm pressed hard against her lips to stifle the gasp that wanted to escape, the whimper building in her chest. Through the fern fronds, she could see the doorway, but couldn’t make out if anyone stood there. Just shadow and light, reality distorted by tropical foliage and her own fear.
Then she heard it. A low, rumbling sound that resonated in her bones, in her teeth, in the base of her spine as Hunter took a long, deep inhale and let out a satisfied growl.
“I’m getting warmer, Lisichka.” His voice was pure gravel, rough as stone scraping stone. “Your scent’s intensified… Fear and arousal. Such a pretty combination. Like honey and smoke.”
She pressed harder against the wall, making herself as small as possible. Her thighs trembled, muscles quaking with the effort of staying still, of not running, of not making a sound. Whether from fear or need, she couldn’t tell anymore. They’d merged, become the same thing. A dark wanting that pulsed between her legs and squeezed her lungs.
Heavy footsteps punched into the stone floor, slow and deliberate. He was taking his time, drawing it out, savoring it. The hunter enjoying the hunt, the certainty of the catch more intoxicating than the capture itself.
“You chose well,” he continued, and his voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, bouncing off glass, filtered through plants, impossible to locate. “The heat…makes your scent stronger. I could track you blind in this climate, even with the perfumed air around the flowers. I know the smell of your wet cunt by heart.” He lifted a palm leaf as he strolled closer, his body a flawless compass to hers. “Could track it straight to wherever you’re hiding.”
Marigold bit down on her knuckle, teeth stabbing into skin, the sharp pain grounding her as she fought to keep silent. Through the ferns, she caught a glimpse of him—shirtless now, all brutal muscle and scarred skin, moving through the garden like violence barely leashed, like a bear prowling through forest undergrowth.
His shirt was gone, broad chest already slick with sweat. The humid air beaded on his shoulders, his arms, highlighting every ridge of muscle, every old wound that decorated his skin like a roadmap of survival. He moved with surprising grace for such a massive man, each step deliberate, controlled.
“Found your footprints in the condensation.” His laugh was dark amusement wrapped in threat, the sound vibrating through the humid air. “You went left at the orchids. Smart. But not smart enough.” He flicked loose the top button of his jeans, drawing her attention to the massive bulge in his pants. “You should know by now, that I’d track you to the end of the earth. You’ll never escape me.”
He was getting closer. She could feel his nearness in her bones, in her blood, the way prey senses a predator closing in. Her body tensed, muscles coiling like springs ready to release.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to stay silent and small. Every survival instinct screamed at her to run, to bolt, to move, but her body refused to obey, frozen in that terrible space between terror and anticipation. Knowing he’d lunge at the first sound.
“There are rules to a good hunt,” Hunter said, voice closer.
Maybe twenty feet away, maybe less.
“The prey always runs. First, they freeze. That’s the fear. But eventually, survival instincts kick in and that same terror makes them bolt. The predator chases. And when the predator inevitably catches the prey…” His shadow spread across the damp stone, just by her feet. He parted the ferns with one massive hand. “The predator gets to feast.”
She couldn’t help it. A small sound escaped her throat, half whimper, half moan. Hunter’s head snapped in her direction.
Need and fear tangled so completely in her belly she swayed.
Those obsidian eyes locked on her hiding place, and his mouth curved into a slow wicked grin. “Poymal tebya.”
She exploded from behind the ferns, pure instinct overriding logic. The second her feet pushed off the wet stone, she launched into a dead run, sprinting toward the far side of the solarium where another door promised escape until his arm banded around her waist, yanking her back to his chest and knocking the wind from her lungs.
“No!”
He was faster. Always faster.
His hand closed around her wrist like a manacle, pinning her flailing arms down with enough force to startle a cry from her throat. His other hand covered her mouth, the arm around her waist tightening like an iron bar, like a bear trap snapping shut.
“Caught you,” he growled directly into her ear, his breath hot against her sweat-dampened skin.
