Page 34 of Hunt Me

My thumbs move before my brain catches up.

Why would I be running? You’ll be the one running.

Send.

Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again.

Confident. I like that.

Heat crawls up my neck. I should throw the phone across the room. Block the number. Cancel this whole stupid idea before it goes any further.

Instead, I type:Confidence requires belief in an uncertain outcome. I’m just stating facts.

Facts?

Yes. By the end of tonight, you’ll realize you’re outmatched. Then you’ll run.

The response comes faster this time.

Outmatched in what, exactly?

I bite my lip, consider my next words carefully. Every message is a negotiation. Every word is a potential weapon.

Everything that matters.

Everything?

The single word carries weight I can feel through the screen. Heat. Promise. Threat.

My pulse kicks up despite myself.

Everything,I confirm.

The dots appear and disappear twice. Whatever he’s typing, he keeps deleting.

Finally:Tell me what you’re wearing right now.

“Fuck off,” I mutter at the screen.

But my free hand drifts to the hem of my tank top anyway, fingers tracing the fabric. Old MIT shirt, paint-stained. Ripped jeans I’ve owned since Stanford. My armor for a Tuesday afternoon of breaking into systems I have no business touching.

I type:Nothing you’ll see before dinner.

That’s not what I asked.

My breath catches. He’s not flirting. Not teasing. He’sdemanding.

And my body responds like he’s still in that alley, pressed against me, stealing the air from my lungs.

I should shut this down. Remind him he doesn’t get to command me, doesn’t get to expect answers just because he corners well and knows how to use his body as a weapon.

Instead, I find myself typing:Tank top. Jeans. Wondering why you’re sexting when you’re supposed to be working.

Who says I’m not working?

Are you?

Always.