Page 72 of Prey

I should refuse to play and stay in this cell, denying him the satisfaction.

But my legs are already moving. My body remembers how to hunt, how to track, how to disappear into hostile territory. The skills I learned during three months of killing collectors surge back to life.

Except now I’m not the hunter. I’m the hunted. And some sick part of me is excited about it.

I step into the hallway and immediately orient myself. The exit leads to a main corridor that branches toward what looks like the lodge’s rear entrance. My footsteps are silent on the concrete floor as I make my way through the facility, past holding cells and equipment storage, toward the door that will release me into the wilderness.

The compound’s layout becomes clear as I move. This isn’t just a prison—it’s a hunting preserve. Every aspect is designed for the pursuit and capture of human prey.

I push through the exit door and emerge into late afternoon sunlight. The Wisconsin air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. The compound’s central lodge looms behind me, all rustic timber and stone that masks the sophisticated horror contained within.

I have two hours before he comes for me.

I start running.

The forest floor is soft beneath my trainers, years of fallen leaves creating natural cushioning. I move northeast, away from what I think is the main access road, deeper into the wilderness where the trees grow thicker, and the terrain becomes more challenging.

During my months as a hunter, I spent hours running through urban environments, but this is different. Primal. The way humans were meant to move before cities and cars and concrete cages.

I leap over a fallen log, duck under low-hanging branches, and navigate around a steep ravine that slows my progress. My muscles warm quickly, settling into the familiar burn of sustained exertion. The athletic wear moves with me like a second skin, and I curse Nikolai again for how thoroughly he’s prepared for this.

Approximately thirty minutes in, I reach the ridge overlooking the lake. It’s larger than it appeared from my cell window, maybe two miles across, with several small islands dotting the dark water. The opposite shore is thick with forest, with no sign of roads or structures. If I could cross the water, I might buy myself more time.

But I don’t have time to find a way across. And he’s probably counting on me to think exactly that.

I turn west instead, following the ridgeline where the ground is firmer and I can maintain better speed. My breathing is still controlled, and my heart rate is elevated but manageable. The two-hour head start might actually mean something if I can get far enough ahead to choose the terrain where he catches me.

The thought stops me cold. I’m already thinking about where he’ll catch me, not if.

This is how his conditioning works. Inch by inch, your mind accepts premises you would have rejected absolutely before.

And it’s working.

I force myself to run faster, pushing through the burn in my legs. The forest blurs past as I leap streams and dodge through tight clusters of trees. My ponytail whips behind me, and sweat begins to bead on my forehead despite the cool air.

Forty-five minutes. I’ve covered maybe five miles, putting real distance between myself and the compound. My body is hitting its stride now, the rhythm of pursuit that served me well during my months hunting monsters in human form.

Except now I’m the one being hunted by a monster, and there’s a depraved part of me that is looking forward to being caught.

The realization hits me as I vault over another fallen tree. My body isn’t just running from him—it’s running for him. Every mile I cover makes the eventual capture more satisfying.Every burst of speed increases the challenge, making me a more worthy prize.

An hour in, my breathing becomes labored. The initial adrenaline surge is fading, replaced by the steady burn of sustained aerobic effort. My top clings to my back with sweat, and my legs are starting to feel the accumulated impact of running on uneven ground.

I pause at a small clearing to drink from the canteen, scanning the forest around me for any sign of pursuit. Nothing but trees and shadows and the distant call of birds. But he’s out there somewhere. Probably watching me right now through scope or binoculars, tracking my progress, calculating when to begin his own hunt.

The water is cool against my throat, and I force myself not to drink too much. I need to stay hydrated, but I also need to keep moving.

As I lower the canteen, I catch sight of movement in my peripheral vision. Just a flash of darkness between the trees, too quick and deliberate to be wildlife.

My heart rate spikes. The two hours aren’t up yet, but maybe he got impatient. Maybe watching me run has been too much of a temptation.

I don’t wait to find out, sprinting deeper into the forest and abandoning stealth for pure speed. Branches whip past my face, and I can hear my own breathing becoming ragged with exertion, fear and anticipation.

Because even as I run, even as my rational mind screams at me to find a way out of this nightmare, my pussy is getting wet thinking about what will happen when he catches me.

The trees thin ahead, revealing another clearing. I burst through the tree line and immediately register my mistake. It’s not a natural clearing—it’s a hunting blind, completewith an elevated platform and shooting lanes cut through the surrounding forest.

He’s herded me here. Driven me toward this exact spot using terrain and timing and his intimate knowledge of how prey behaves under pressure.