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How do I claim this on my taxes?
With a tight smile, Margot heads to the door. “A word of advice?” Her gaze is a warning as she looks back. “Don’t cry. He hates that.”
Before I can respond, she’s gone.
Chapter Two
Claire
Unease swirls and squirms in my stomach as I step out of the shower. I’ve been in Shane’s enormous house a whole day without seeing him or being summoned. The smartwatch chafes—mentally, not physically. I should never commit a crime. Besides the fact I’m a horrible liar, an ankle monitor would drive me crazy. Not that I had aspirations of a life of crime, but still, it’s helpful to know.
Tapping the screen to check the battery hasn’t died has become an obsession. Every time it flashes on, proving there’s no technical reason I haven’t been summoned, my frustration grows. I need to get the first hunt over with. There’s no relaxing until I know how the next thirty days will go.
Margot’s advice rattled me, filling my head with doubts I should have had when Shane first propositioned me.
What if I can’t handle this?
What if he does something that causes irreparable psychological or physical damage?
The contract stated he would be responsible for any medical care I need as a result of this job, but does it matter who pays for my hospital stay if he breaks my back and I never walk again? When I read the contract, everything seemed reasonable, but now I wonder if my desperation for $30,000 made me overlook red flags. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s overlooking red flags. And he’s a lawyer. Fuck. I signed a contract he wrote without asking anyone else to review it.
After Margot left earlier, I unpacked and explored the house, hoping to run into Shane. I never did, so I occupied myself by working out and making dinner. Now, fresh out of the shower, I plan on watching trash television on my laptop until I fall asleep. Unless he summons me. Maybe that’s his thing. Lulling prey into believing they’re safe for the night, only to summon them at three in the morning.
Wrapped in a towel, I walk out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. The sun set while I was in the shower. The room is dim, lit only by the bathroom light’s glow. Rummaging through a dresser drawer, I find a pair of boyshort underwear. I slip them on, then reach for one of the oversized T-shirts I wear to bed.
“Don’t.”
The command comes from behind me. My yelp is as high-pitched as his voice is deep, as unhinged as his voice is composed. I whirl, my hip catching the open drawer.
Damnit.
In the corner of the room, relaxed in the leather easy chair, Shane watches me. Shadows obscure his face. I can’t see where he’s looking, but I can feel it. The heat of his gaze makes me wonder how I didn’t know he was here, how I didn’t feel him watching the second I stepped out of the bathroom.
“Um, hi.” I try to be polite even though I want to ask him who the fuck just sits in the dark waiting for someone to come out of the shower.
The kind of man who pays someone to be hunted and fucked does.
“Did you summon me?” I poke the watch screen, suddenly panicked he’s been trying to, and I somehow missed it. What if he’s changed his mind, and I’m being sent home?
“No, I didn’t.” The sound of leather creaking lets me know he’s shifted. His voice is even, almost formal.
My body is on edge, every cell screaming predator. A man I barely know is waiting for me in a dark room, disregarding normal boundaries, but he sounds so polite. We could be at the holiday party; a piece of me feels like he’s going to bring up the cat sweater, for fuck’s sake. It’s unsettling. Is Shane the harmless type of odd? Or wear my skin to this year’s Christmas party odd? How can he wait in the dark for me like this but sound like that?
“All right.” I’m intensely aware of how he can see me, but I can’t see him. I don’t know what to say. I want to ask him why he’s in here, but it’s his house, so technically, he can be anywhere.
“Are you curious why I’m here?” the question is asked in that same pleasant voice. It’s deep, almost melodic, and could be soothing under different circumstances. Right now, it’s foreboding in a way that makes me want to start running even though he hasn’t told me to.
“Yes. Margot said you don’t spend much time with prey outside the woods.”
“I don’t,” he says, “but I do like to sample what I’ll be hunting. Makes the chase more enjoyable.”
As I try to figure out if he means he’s here to fuck me or if he plans on sitting in the corner and watching me get dressed, he speaks again.
“Do you know your safe word and cue to submit?”
I nod. Wanderlust. Yield. They were on a paper in my folder, tucked right behind the results of his STI test and semen analysis. Apparently, Shane had a vasectomy three years ago. Wanderlust means I need the hunt to stop because something’s gone too far. Yield means he wants the hunt to stop so he can fuck me. Until he says yield, my job is to keep trying to run, even if he catches me.
The check-in eases my apprehension slightly. If he’s thinking about consent, he isn’t planning on making me into a skin suit.
