Page 68 of Prey

“It’ll turn you into what you need to be to survive what comes next.” He pauses. “What you were always going to become anyway.”

“And what’s that?”

“Mine.”

The single word hangs between us, heavy with promise and threat. I hate that it sends a shiver through me, hate that some twisted part of me wants to believe him.

“Your property, you mean.”

“If that’s how you need to think of it.”

I study his masked face, looking for any hint of the man who held me tenderly after sex, who whispered my name like a prayer. But all I see is cold calculation.

“Why keep me at all? Why not just ship me off to whatever sick fuck wants to buy me now?”

His hands flex at his sides. “Because you’re special.”

“Special how? Because I killed a few people?”

“Because you became a predator.” He steps closer. “Because when you glimpsed my world, you used it to become dangerous instead of running away. Because you understand violence in a way most people never will.”

“So?” I ask.

“So that makes you valuable. To me and to others.”

I wrap the sheet tighter around myself, armor against his words and the heat they kindle.

“What if I refuse to be conditioned? What if I fight you every step of the way?”

“Then the conditioning will take longer and hurt more. But it will happen.” His voice carries absolute certainty. “I’ve broken stronger people than you.”

“People like yourself?”

For just a moment, his controlled facade slips. I catch a glimpse of damage before the mask reasserts itself.

“Careful, Jenna. You’re not in a position to psychoanalyze me.”

“Hit a nerve?” I ask.

“Keep pushing, and you’ll find out exactly how much nerve you’ve hit.”

But I see the truth now—he’s as broken as I am. Maybe more so. And that knowledge feels like the first real weapon I’ve had since waking up in this prettier prison.

“What happens if the conditioning doesn’t take? If I can’t be broken the way you want?”

“Everyone breaks eventually. It’s a matter of finding the right pressure points.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

His eyes glitter behind the mask. “Then I keep you anyway.”

The words should terrify me. Instead, they send heat spiraling through my core, and I hate myself for it. Hate that even now, even after everything he’s done, part of me wants to belong to him.

“You’re sick.”

“We both are.” He moves toward the door. “Breakfast will be delivered in an hour. Eat it all. You’ll need your strength for what comes next.”

“Wait.” The word escapes before I can stop it.