Page 104 of Prey

Nothing.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Doubt creeps in—maybe I misread his patterns, maybe he changed his approach, maybe?—

Movement. A flash of dark tactical gear between the trees, exactly where I predicted.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I track his progress through the scope. He moves with fluid confidence, unaware he’s being watched. The predator has become prey, and the role reversal sends a jolt of electricity down my spine.

He pauses at the tree line, scanning the ridge above. Looking for me in the wrong direction.

I have one shot. If I miss, he’ll disappear, and this becomes his hunt again.

I breathe out slowly and squeeze the trigger.

The dart catches him in the shoulder. He spins toward the sound, eyes finding me among the rocks with deadly accuracy. Even sedated, even caught, his gaze is absolutely predatory.

“Clever girl,” he calls out, voice already starting to slur. “How long did you?—”

His knees buckle. The drug works fast and is designed for targets his size.

I scramble down from the rocks as he collapses against a pine tree, struggling to stay conscious. Up close, I can see the mixture of pride and arousal in his expression.

“You hunted me.” His words are thick, pupils dilated. “Actually fucking hunted me.”

“I learned from the best.” I kneel beside him, checking his pulse. Strong and steady despite the sedative. “How does it feel to be caught?”

“Like I want you to do terrible things to me.” His hand reaches for my thigh, fingers clumsy but insistent. “The dart won’t last long. Maybe twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes to get him secured. Twenty minutes before the hunter becomes dangerous again.

I’ve prepared for this.

The rope I brought is military grade, the same type he used on targets during training exercises. His wrists bound behind the tree trunk while his legs remain free as he sits at the base of the tree—I want him mobile enough for what I have planned.

“Jenna.” He tests the bonds, already more alert than he should be. His metabolism processes drugs faster than normal, another gift from his conditioning. “What are you going to do to me?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I pull out the tactical knife he gave me weeks ago and watch his pupils dilate further.

“You taught me that fear makes prey predictable,” I murmur, running the flat of the blade along his jaw. “But you never told me what it does to predators.”

His breathing changes, becoming deeper. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

“No?” I press the knife’s edge against his throat, just enough pressure to make my point. “You said I could do whatever I want with you.”

“Fuck.” The word comes out strangled, his cock hardening visibly against his tactical pants. “You’re enjoying this.”

I am. The power, the control, the way his winter eyes watch my every movement with desperate intensity—it’s intoxicatingin a way that should disturb me. Instead, it feels like coming home to a part of myself I never knew existed.

“You made me into a hunter,” I tell him, trailing the knife down his chest. “Did you think I’d only hunt others?”

The blade cuts through the fabric of his shirt like butter, exposing the tattooed skin beneath. His breathing hitches as I trace the ink with the knife’s tip—not cutting, just grazing.

“Jenna.” My name sounds like prayer and profanity combined. “Please.”

“Please what?” I straddle his thighs, the knife still pressed against his sternum. “Please stop? Please continue? Please cut you?”

“Please don’t stop.” His honesty surprises us both. “I’ve never—no one’s ever hunted me before.”

The vulnerability in his admission makes my chest tight. This man, who was engineered to be the perfect predator, has been reduced to begging by a woman with a blade. The role reversal shouldn’t work, but it does. God, it does.