Page 64 of Mine To Hunt

She screams, the sound short and terrified, echoing in the space. Panic floods her features, making her tremble.

I lift a gloved finger to my mask immediately, the gesture commanding. "Shh." I say sharply, cutting through her fear with precision.

She freezes, her breath hitching, but the terror intensifies in her eyes. I feel satisfied because obedience comes quickly, even if driven by fear.

I do not rush toward her, understanding that stillness holds power. I start walking slowly, each step deliberate to let her fear build naturally.

She backs away, her hands shaking violently. Her heartbeat is almost audible, thundering with panic. "Who are you? How did you get in here?" She cries, her voice breaking as tears stream down.

I shush her again, firmer. "Shh." I repeat, and she freezes completely, her body obeying despite the internal scream.

The knife rests steady in my hand as I get closer to her, the weight familiar in my grip. I wait before I touch her, so her fear grows bigger and darker.

"Please, don't come any closer." She begs, sobs escaping. "I don't know what you want from me. Please just leave. I won't tell anyone."

I stare at her for a while, watching every twitch and tear. "You look beautiful when you're scared, Little Prey." I say, loving how it twists her mind inside the fear.

I raise the knife, and she jerks back. I drag it slow across her cheek, just a thin cut that burns right.

She gasps, pain blending with panic, her body shaking as she looks at me. “Why are you doing this to me?” She whispers. The words are thin, fragile, almost useless.

I don’t answer her.

There is no reason to. Answers are for people who feel regret or doubt. I feel neither. What I needed from her wasn’t a conversation. It was a reaction. And she gave me exactly what I wanted.

I lower the blade after I’ve seen enough. Her fear is complete now, layered with confusion and something she doesn’t yet understand. I step back on purpose, not because I have to, but because I can. Distance proves control better than violence ever could.

Leaving feels easy. Calm. I walk out slowly, retracing my steps without hurry. My heart doesn’t race. My thoughts don’t scatter. Everything inside me feels settled, almost quiet.

As I move away, the truth becomes clear to me. She was never a prey running from instinct. She was something observed, measured, and judged. A subject placed in front of a decision only I could make. And the fact that I chose not to kill her doesn’t mean I’m being kind. It means I’m certain.

Because now I understand what power really is. Not taking her life, but deciding that she gets to keep it. For now.

Chapter 21

Her

The newsroom comes into view the next afternoon, my steps feeling heavier than usual as the lingering effects of last night's confrontation with him weigh on me. My body still feels strange, like it is carrying echoes of that encounter that I cannot fully shake off.

Fragments of it surface in my mind without warning, not the sharp sting of the cut on my cheek or the terror of seeing him there, but his voice repeating in my head. The way he said I looked beautiful when I was scared, that low tone that sent a confusing heat through me where there should have only been pure fear.

I keep telling myself it was just shock twisting my reactions in weird ways, or maybe the overwhelming stress from everything that has been happening lately, or even the residual adrenaline pumping through my veins after such a terrifying moment.

I need some explanation, anything to make sense of that unwanted arousal that left me feeling shaken and deeply ashamed of my own body.

As I take my seat at the desk, sliding into the chair that has become so familiar over the past week, I open my laptop automatically, my fingers moving through the login process without much thought because it is all muscle memory at this point.

But even as I pull up my drafts and try to focus on the screen, my mind drifts back to him again. To how he did not rush at me but walked slowly, letting the fear build inside me deliberately before he even touched the knife to my skin. The confusion from my body's reaction makes me shift uncomfortably in my chair.

At first, everything in the newsroom seems completely normal, just like it does on any other day. Phones ring with that persistent tone that always seems to demand immediate attention from whoever is closest.

Someone lets out a short laugh near the printers, a burst of amusement that cuts through the steady hum of keyboards clicking away.

A chair scrapes back loudly as a colleague stands up to stretch, and another rolls forward with a soft squeak as someone else settles in for the afternoon shift. The overall rhythm of the place feels steady and almost indifferent, carrying on without any notice of the turmoil swirling inside me.

I start typing on my article, forcing myself to concentrate on the words in front of me. But then something shifts in the air around me, not in a loud or dramatic way, but subtly enough that it makes me question if I am just imagining things due to my heightened nerves.

Conversations nearby dip in volume the moment I pass by on my way to refill my water bottle at the cooler. People subtly turntheir bodies away from me, avoiding direct eye contact as if I am carrying something they do not want to catch.