Page 78 of Stalked
I stare at him, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. There's a storm brewing inside me—fear, anticipation, possessiveness, and something dangerously close to hope—all churning together into something I can barely contain.
31
LIA
The attendants remove the last pin from my hair, letting it cascade down my back in loose waves. I barely recognize myself in the mirror—dressed in emerald green. The fabric is translucent, making it almost like I’m naked.
“It's time,” one of the women says, her voice soft but firm. “He's waiting.” She hands me a green mask that matches Vane's, and I put it on.
My heart pounds against my ribs as they lead me through the dimly lit corridor. The cool air caresses my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms. I'm not cold, though—I'm burning from the inside out, anticipation coursing through my veins like fire.
We reach the entrance to what was once the orgy room. The doors swing open, and I step inside to find it completely transformed. Gone are the chains, the heady scent of sex and sweat. The space has been cleaned and redesigned, now illuminated by hundreds of candles, casting a golden glow across the gathered hunters who stand around a mirrored dais.
And there is Vane.
Our eyes lock across the room, and just like that, I'm seventeen again—sitting in chemistry class with my heart racing while pretending I hate him.
One look. That's all it takes for Vane Blackwood to reduce me to that teenage girl with a crush I never wanted to admit to.
I take a deep breath and begin my walk toward him, toward the man who has held my heart all this time.
Vane steps forward and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me against his side. He doesn't guide me onto the dais—the raised platform stands empty, waiting for whatever comes next in this ritual.
“The claiming happens there,” Vane whispers against my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “No one stands on it until the ceremony begins.”
His fingers trace patterns on my hip, possessive and tender all at once. Around us, the other hunters and their claimed prey stand in a circle. The anticipation in the room is palpable, thick enough to taste.
Vane's gaze returns to my face, and something in his expression shifts. The predatory hunger that's been there since he caught me softens into something else—something that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
“You look gorgeous,” he says, but it's not the words that matter—it's how he says them. Like I'm water in a desert. Like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking his entire life. His voice wraps around me, a physical thing as tangible as the arm at my waist. “Like everything I've ever wanted, dressed in the color that's been waiting for you.”
“You don't look too bad yourself,” I say, my eyes traveling over his bare chest.
Vane stands before me in just his black pants, his upper body completely exposed. Despite everything we've done over the pasthowever many hours, I realize I haven't taken the time to truly appreciate the artwork etched on his skin.
I reach out, unable to resist tracing the intricate pattern that begins at his collarbone and spreads across his pectoral. My fingertips drift over each line, each shadow, following the design down to where it disappears beneath his waistband.
“You're so fucking handsome,” I whisper. “So perfect.”
My fingers trail lower, following a particularly intricate design that curves around his hip. The muscle beneath my touch tightens, and suddenly his hand closes around my wrist, stopping my exploration.
“Stop,” he growls, his eyes darkening behind his mask. “Unless you want me to break the rules and fuck you right here before the ceremony starts.”
I feel my lips curl into a smirk behind my own mask, the familiar thrill of challenging him coursing through me. Fifteen years apart, and we still dance this same dance.
“I wouldn't mind that,” I reply, pressing my body closer to his.
Vane's grip on my wrist tightens. “You always were a fucking tease, Morgan.”
“Only with you,” I reply, deliberately pressing closer until I feel his arousal against my hip. “Something about you just brings it out in me.”
I recognize the look in his eyes—the one that says he's barely holding himself together. God, I love having this effect on him. After hours of being his submissive, of surrendering to his every command in the maze, there's something delicious about reclaiming this power.
“I think you forgot who caught who in this Hunt,” he states, but there's a hint of amusement beneath the warning.
I lean in. “I think you forgot I let you catch me.”
He pulls back; eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Is that what you're telling yourself?”
