Page 99 of The Hunter

I forced myself not to fidget. Not to let my gaze linger too long on Henry’s plate. But I couldn’t help it. My heart pounded behind my ribs like it might claw its way out as one question floated through my mind. Would my plan work?

Or had he already figured it out?

Was he toying with me now? Playing with me before going in for the kill?

I could feel the weight of his gaze, even when I wasn’t looking. Could sense his distrust, especially after how jumpy I was earlier.

That was why I let him fuck me on the counter when it was the last thing I wanted.

At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself.

When I felt his body against mine, for a brief second, I wondered if maybe I was wrong about him. If maybe there was some other explanation for everything.

But I’d seen the photo. Read the messages.

I wasn’t wrong about this.

I needed to get away. Tonight.

I only prayed the crushed up pills I’d hidden in his serving of mashed potatoes were enough.

He was built like a damn tank — tall, broad, the kind of man who could weather a fall down a ravine and crawl his way out.

What if it didn’t work?

What if the dosage wasn’t strong enough?

What if it made him suspicious instead of sleepy?

I sliced my green beans with robotic precision, the metal fork and knife scraping faintly against the ceramic plate. Tiny sounds. Normal sounds. But to me, they were thunderous.

Just breathe. Smile. Play the part. I’d done this before. Worn the mask. Said the right words. Painted on the perfect expression.

I could do it again.

“What kind of trouble did you get into this afternoon?”

Henry’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts, and I flinched, nearly knocking my fork to the floor. I caught it, forcing a breathy laugh that was too high-pitched. Too…rehearsed.

My skin heated as his eyes seared into me, dissecting me with an unnervingly quiet scrutiny. I needed to get my shit together. This would most likely be my one and only chance to escape. I couldn’t fuck it up.

“Nothing, really,” I said lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Read a little. Changed the sheets on the bed and washed the dirty ones. Although, I have a feeling I may have to change them again tomorrow with the way you can’t keep your hands off me.” I gave him a playful smile I hoped would ease his concern.

“If memory serves, you’re equally to blame for those dirty sheets.”

“Perhaps.” I sipped my wine, barely wetting my lips. I couldn’t afford to dull my instincts. Not tonight.

He picked up his fork and took a bite of chicken as he talked about the weather, how he needed to check the backup generator because of some storm heading this way in a few days.

I nodded. Cut another piece of chicken and chewed without tasting it. Responded where one was required.

But my focus remained on that untouched mound of mashed potatoes.

Why wasn’t he eating them?

Did he not like them?

Was that even possible?