Page 46 of Prey

JENNA

His breathing deepens into the steady rhythm of sleep. One arm drapes heavy across my waist, possessive, even unconscious. I count his breaths—ten, twenty, fifty. Wait until his grip loosens just slightly.

My heart pounds so loud I’m sure it’ll wake him. But he doesn’t stir when I shift incrementally, testing. His arm slides down my hip as I ease away, inch by careful inch.

The bed creaks. I freeze, watching his face in the dim light. His eyes stay closed, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. Without the mask, without the predatory focus, he looks almost… human.

No.I can’t think like that. Can’t let myself forget what he is.

My feet find the floor, cold against bare skin. His clothes lie scattered in the bathroom—tactical pants, black shirt, boots. I grab the shirt first, pulling it over my head. It hangs to mid-thigh, smelling like him.

The pants are too big, but I cinch the belt tight. No underwear—mine are somewhere in that concrete cell. My hands shake as I shove my feet into his boots. They’re huge, but they’ll have to work.

Acquisition.

The word echoes in my skull. He’d called me that. His acquisition. Like I’m property. Like he planned to?—

Bile rises in my throat. How many others? How many other women have been locked in cells before me?

I glance back at him sprawled across the bed, one arm stretched toward the empty space where I’d been. Something twists in my chest—not sympathy, never that. But something.

You’re sick.Stockholm syndrome. That’s all this is.

The door handle turns silently under my hand. Thank God it’s not locked from the inside. The hallway stretches dark and empty, industrial lighting casting harsh shadows. I have no idea which way leads out, but I need to try.

The oversized boots scuff against concrete as I move. Every sound seems amplified—my breathing, my heartbeat, the rustle of his clothes against my skin. But I force myself forward, away from the man who took me. Away from whatever twisted operation he’s running.

Away from the small, traitorous part of me that wanted to stay curled against his chest forever.

The hallway branches into a maze of corridors. I choose left on instinct, then right at the next junction. Emergency exit signs glow faintly overhead—following them has to lead somewhere.

My stolen boots echo in the silence. This place is massive, a converted warehouse or industrial complex. Pipes run along the ceiling. Concrete walls stretch endlessly in both directions.

Another turn. Another hallway. My breath quickens as panic creeps in. What if I’m going in circles? What if?—

There. An elevator at the end of the corridor, steel doors reflecting the harsh fluorescents. I punch the call button, bouncing on my toes as machinery whirs somewhere above.

The doors slide open. Inside, buttons mark three basement levels. I’m on B3. I jam my thumb against G, holding my breath as the elevator rises. One floor. Two. Three.

Ding.

The doors part, and cool night air hits my face. I step out into an industrial district—warehouses and shipping containers, chain-link fences topped with razor wire. But beyond that… lights. Movement. An underground district carved out between the legitimate businesses.

I know places like this. Spent months in one outside Detroit after running from my stepfather. Cash-only motels, no-questions-asked employment, people who mind their own business because everyone’s running from something.

My legs shake as I walk down the cracked sidewalk. Neon signs advertise hourly rooms and twenty-four-hour liquor stores. Music thumps from a bar somewhere. A few people loiter outside a convenience store, but they barely glance at me. Just another woman in oversized clothes, fleeing something better left unasked.

“Hey,” a voice says behind me.

I spin, fists raised. A woman leans against a doorway, cigarette dangling from her fingers. Mid-forties, maybe, bleached hair showing dark roots. Her eyes scan me.

“You need help?” Her voice carries the rasp of too many cigarettes, but there’s something steady in it.

I hesitate. Trusting no one has kept me alive this long. But I’m in men’s boots, wearing clothes that reek of sex and are splattered in blood, with nowhere to go.

“I could use somewhere to crash.”

She takes a long drag, studying me. “Got a room upstairs. Twenty-five bucks a night, no questions asked.”