Page 38 of Prey

He’s been hunting. Killing.

My body’s reaction is immediate and wrong. My thighs clench together, and heat pools low despite the terror crawling up my spine. The wetness between my legs returns instantly, responding to the predator standing in my doorway, covered in someone else’s blood.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I should be screaming. Pressing myself against the farthest wall and begging him not to hurt me. Instead, my nipples tighten against the cool air, and my breath comes shorter for all the wrong reasons.

“Follow me.”

His voice comes out rough, gravelly beneath the mask.

I don’t argue. What’s the point? I push myself up from the cot, my heart racing from adrenaline and desire, but I force myself to stay steady. I’m naked—he’s used to me this way now. No point in false modesty when he’s already had his hands on me.

His eyes roam over my body like a physical touch, lingering on my breasts, the curve of my hips, the place between my thighs that still aches for him despite everything.

I walk toward him on unsteady feet. He turns abruptly, and I follow.

But we don’t go toward the showers as I expected. Instead, he leads me down the concrete corridor to something new—an elevator. My bare feet slap against the cold floor as I struggle to keep up with his longer stride. The blood on his gear leaves a metallic scent in the air that makes my stomach turn and clench simultaneously.

The elevator rises. One floor. Two. Then opens into a bedroom.

It’s sparse but comfortable—a large bed with dark sheets, minimal furniture, everything functional. This is where he lives. Where he sleeps when he’s not watching me on those cameras.

He guides me through to an en-suite bathroom, one hand on my lower back. The touch burns through my skin, leaving invisible marks. Inside, a massive tub built for two people sits already filled with steaming water.

“Get in.”

I hesitate at the edge while he starts stripping off his blood-soaked tactical gear. The vest hits the floor with a wet thud. His shirt follows, revealing a sculpted tattooed chest I’ve never glimpsed before. More blood streaks his skin—someone else’s blood painting those tribal patterns darker.

My legs tremble as I step into the hot water. It stings against my cold skin, but I sink down anyway, watching him peel off the rest of his clothes. The mask stays on, as always.

The water ripples as he steps in, and I can’t stop staring.

His cock stands thick and hard against his abdomen, that Prince Albert piercing catching the bathroom light like some obscene jewel. The titanium barbell gleams wet from pre-cum already beading at the tip, and my treacherous body clenches at the memory of how it felt grinding against me.

God, he’s built like a weapon. Every muscle defined, every line of his body speaking to years of training. The tattoos across his chest move with each breath, abstract patterns that draw my eyes down, down to where his cock juts out like it owns the space between us.

I want to climb onto his lap and sink down on him until that piercing hits places inside me I didn’t know existed. I want to ride him until the only thing I can remember is his name. Want to?—

Stop it.

I dig my nails into my palms beneath the water, horrified at myself. What kind of person gets wet for their captor? What kind of fucked-up trauma response is this? He kidnapped me. Keepsme in a cell. Feeds me when he feels like it, which apparently isn’t often, given the gnawing hunger in my belly.

And here I am, practically drooling over his cock like some desperate slut who can’t control herself.

You’re better than this, Jenna. Smarter than this.

But my body doesn’t care about smart. It only knows that he’s naked and hard and close enough to touch. That the water between us does nothing to hide how my nipples have tightened into peaks or how my thighs keep pressing together seeking friction that won’t come.

He settles into the water across from me, his pale gaze never leaving my face, even as blood rinses off his skin in pink swirls. The mask remains, bone-white and predatory, a barrier between us that I’m starting to hate as much as I fear it.

“Spread your legs.”

The command cuts through my self-recrimination. I push my thighs together instead of obeying. The water sloshes between us as I lean forward slightly, studying him through the steam rising from the tub.

“What are you going to do to me?” I ask.

The words come out smaller than I intend, caught somewhere between challenge and genuine fear. Because this feels different. The blood on his skin, the way he brought me to his private space instead of keeping me in that cell—the ground has shifted, and I don’t know what it means.