Page 60 of Prey

The stairs creak under my boots as I climb to the third floor. These old buildings hold sound in strange ways—footsteps that echo for seconds, voices that carry through thin walls, the particular groan of settling wood that becomes as familiar as your own heartbeat after a while.

I pause outside my door, grocery bags balanced against my hip. The hallway stretches empty in both directions, but that doesn’t mean anything. If someone wanted me badly enough, they’d wait in the shadows until I was vulnerable.

The deadbolt turns with a satisfying click. I push into my apartment, immediately scanning for disturbances—furniture moved, belongings shifted, the dozen small tells that would indicate someone had been here while I was gone.

Everything looks normal. Sparse furniture arranged as I left it. Laptop closed on the small table, power light dark. The window still cracked an inch for ventilation, the thin strip of tape I left across the sash still unbroken, curtain pulled tight against prying eyes.

But normal doesn’t calm the current running under my skin.

I dump the groceries on the counter and move through my routine. Check the closet and find clothes hanging in the same order. Check under the bed and find the go-bag undisturbed, knife cache where I left it.

Nothing. No one.

So why can’t I shake the feeling?

The milk goes in the refrigerator next to leftover takeout and energy drinks. Protein bars in the cabinet beside instant coffee and canned soup. The basic sustenance of someone who views food as fuel rather than pleasure, who’s forgotten what it feels like to cook for another person.

I strip off my jacket and hang it on the door hook, then pause. There it is again—that prickle of awareness, like standing too close to a high-voltage line.

I splash cold water on my face, washing away the unease. The rational part of my brain knows I’m safe here.

But the animal part of my brain, the part that kept me alive all these years, whispers a different truth.

He’s coming.

The thought arrives unbidden, and I squash it before it can take root. I don’t know where it came from or why tonight feels different from all the nights before it. Maybe it’s the way the light hits the window, or the pattern of sounds from the street, or just the accumulated weight of looking over my shoulder.

Or maybe it’s because I’ve been dreaming about him every night, waking up with his name on my lips and wetness between my thighs like my body’s calling out to something it shouldn’t want.

Stop.

I move to the window, staying on one side, and peer through the gap in the curtains. The street below bustles with evening activity—people heading home, grabbing dinner, disappearinginto the multitude of bars and clubs that make this district profitable. Nothing unusual. Nothing threatening.

But my hands shake as I let the curtain fall back into place.

All these nights of telling myself I escaped, that I’m free, that I’ve turned my captivity into strength and my trauma into purpose. Each night I’d lie to myself about why I chose this neighborhood, this life, this proximity to the underground networks run by the man who kept me in a cage.

Because somewhere in the diseased part of my psychology, I’m not running from Nikolai Vex.

I’m waiting for him to find me. Sinking onto the edge of my bed, head in my hands, I finally acknowledge what I’ve been too scared to examine since I escaped.

I could have left Chicago—gotten on a bus to anywhere else, started over in a place where human traffickers and bone-white masks exist only in nightmares. Instead, I stayed. Built a life in the shadows of his territory, close enough to feel his presence like heat from a distant fire.

Close enough to be found, if he were looking.

And of course he’s looking. Men like Nikolai don’t lose property and forget. Don’t let acquisitions walk away from their beds and disappear into the night with their clothes. He’s probably been searching since the moment he woke up to empty sheets, following every lead, checking every possible hiding place.

Getting closer every day.

The thought should terrify me. Should send me scrambling for my go-bag, for the bus station, for anywhere that isn’t here. Instead, it sends heat curling through my belly like smoke.

The sick truth I’ve been avoiding is that part of me wants to be found. Wants to feel those powerful hands on my skin again, wants to hear him call mehisin that rough voice that made my knees weak. Wants to surrender to something stronger than myown will, to stop being responsible for my own survival and let someone else make the decisions.

Someone who looked at me like I was the answer to every prayer he’d never thought to say.

My phone buzzes against the nightstand. Text message from Rico.

Good fight the other night. Got another offer if you’re interested. Big money.