Page 93 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

“I mean… I know we’ve lived through some chaos, but even for us, this is moving at warp speed.

Did we fall into a black hole or get dropped into the world’s weirdest fairy tale?

” Bobbie floats lazily in the pool, drink in hand, while I sit on the edge like a grounded toddler. Feet in, ass out. No swimming allowed.

A week and a half out of the hospital after getting plowed into head-on, and I’m going stir crazy.

I love Inez. Truly. She’s everything I asked for in a personal protection lead.

But I didn’t realize ‘protection’ meant no unsupervised pool dips, no stair climbing, and no getting the mail without backup.

Everyone’s still acting like I’m Humpty Dumpty post-fall, and it’s driving me insane.

Bobbie tops off her mimosa and side-eyes me. “Gotta say though... Grayson’s overprotectiveness kind of paid off. That car hit you hard, but the Bentley did its job.”

I groan. “Yeah, thanks to him insisting I ride around in a goddamn bank vault on wheels. Airbag knocked me out cold. And note to self? Secure all loose objects. My cell phone tried to assassinate me mid-airbag deployment. Still a little sore, but the headache’s finally gone.

My body’s mostly fine. My brain? Losing it. ”

She winces. “See? That’s exactly it. Shit like that messes with your head. And then they show up all growly and bossy and act like you’re seconds from flatlining. I seriously don’t know how you handle two of them.”

“Right? It’s like I blinked and now I’m tangled up in a man with a tiger mask and his six-foot-three lion son.” I shake my head ruefully. “Okay, when I say it out loud it sounds... worse.”

“No, girl, it sounds exactly as unhinged as it is. But why does it feel so real? Like, too real? I should be scared, right? I should question everything. But instead I’m over here thinking about his hands like a simp.

” Bobbie murmurs, eyes getting a little glassy as she imagines whatever she is about her new boyfriend Devon.

I nod slowly. “I think I know why.”

“Oh good, because I was about to blame the moon or a head injury. But you are the only one that recently had a head injury and you were fully vested with your two before that.” Bobbie sasses.

“I minored in psych, remember? There’s this concept, emotional anchoring.

It’s when your brain associates someone with intense experiences, so it forms a bond way faster than it normally would.

It’s not just about how long you’ve known someone.

It’s about how deeply they embedded in the feeling of it all. ”

Bobbie gapes. “So what? They flooded our systems like emotional hackers?”

“I mean,” I shrug, “basically. We’ve been through adrenaline spikes, near-death panic, lust, power plays, tenderness… all of it. That kind of emotional whiplash makes your brain think you’ve lived a lifetime with someone, even if it’s only been a week or two and change.”

“Damn.” Bobbie paddles over to the side bar and tops off her mimosa she has been sipping. “I thought I was just really into hot, emotionally unavailable giants with quiet savior complexes.”

I do my best not to glare as alcohol is still on my no list. “That too. But your brain’s tricked into coding him as safe, familiar, essential.

Same with mine.” I side eye Inez to see if she would notice if I snuck over to the pitcher.

She smirks and looks at me knowingly from over her sunglasses while giving a minute shake of the head.

“And maybe that’s not a trick.” I sigh. “Funny how fast things change when you go from prey to partner.”

I notice Inez shifting her weight from one side to the next.

She has been mostly still. I look at her.

She stands there, black hair scraped off her face and in a tight French braid that goes to her lower back, bronze skin gleaming, long line light gray vest over high necked maroon blouse and high-waisted slim fit matching gray pants.

Signature Ray-Bans and a slightly pained look.

When she sees my look, she speaks almost reluctantly.

“It’s not. What you’re describing? We called it high-risk imprinting.

Surge bonding. Real thing. I’ve seen men throw themselves into gunfire for someone they only met five days earlier.

Trauma rewires your brain fast. It’s textbook.

We used to see it in the field all the time.

You put someone through trauma, adrenaline, and enforced proximity?

That bond forms fast and deep. Here’s the thing you have to remember, these bonds form and last decades, lifetimes.

Brooks and Devon served together briefly over five years ago.

Doesn’t matter. That kind of bond lasts. ”

She takes a deep breath and then blurts, “And for what it’s worth? You’re not the only one who anchored.”

Prey Drive Book Three – Girls Like Us Coming December 2025

You can only run for so long.

?? Preorder on Amazon

Riley Rose Algiers Point, New Orleans

The mirror was fogged from the busted fan that hadn’t worked since we moved into the old shotgun house. Our bathroom window sat just off center from the neighbor’s living room.

Marisol hollered from the couch, “Old Mr. Wilkins is peeking again. Recliner’s back and facing the window.”

I didn’t flinch. Just blotted my hair with a microfiber towel, then gave him the full frontal and a cheerful wave.

Mr. Wilkins angled that recliner for maximum perv potential the week we moved in. He was eighty-seven, mostly blind, and deaf as a post.

“Window’s open,” Marisol added, like that made it a felony.

“So?” I twisted my hair into a braid. “Let the man enjoy the view. Pretty sure it’s the only thrill he’s getting these days. Gives him something to live for.”

“You say that now. Wait till he mails you a Polaroid of your own tits.”

“Bet I look great in grainy resolution.”

I hit the usual routine: lotion, deodorant, micellar spritz.

Then stepped into the hall to throw on clothes.

Quick check in the mirror. Black skirt. Tucked tank.

Bra strap showing just enough to pass for careless.

Nothing over the top. Just enough to not look like I was trying too hard for Grayson’s debrief.

Dumbest name for a trauma recap.

Marisol leaned against the bathroom doorframe, chewing her thumbnail. “You sure you’re okay going?”

“Yep.”

“Even after what happened?”

“Especially after. We’re home, we’re safe, and we’re less in debt this week than last.”

Gloss. Done. I looked over at her. “You got any of that pink perfume left?”

She rolled her eyes and tossed it. I caught it one-handed.

The hallway floor creaked behind me. Normal. Old house. Old bones.

Outside, across the skinny yard between the shotgun houses, a porch light flickered on.

I glanced at the window, my reflection blurred and golden. “Tell Mr. Wilkins thanks for the light.”

Marisol groaned and walked off.

I grabbed my bag and phone. Door clicked shut behind me. Hollered to our reclusive roommate, Ginny, that we’d be back in a few hours. House was hers.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t notice the stillness.

Didn’t see the man who wasn’t Mr. Wilkins. Sitting silent in the shadows. A stare that didn’t blink.

He didn’t rock. He didn’t smoke. He didn’t smile.

He just watched me leave.

Welfare Check A Kate McKinney Mystery Coming November 2025 – January 2026

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Small town. Big secrets.

Sometimes the dispatcher’s the one in danger

Welfare Check A Kate McKinney Mystery

Kate had the windows down and the music loud. Not loud enough to shatter eardrums, but enough to rattle the glovebox and make Boone’s ears twitch. He was hanging halfway out the passenger window, tongue flapping, catching scents she couldn’t smell and judging every car they passed.

She was doing 72 in a 55, singing along with Bon Jovi like she was twenty years younger and halfway to drunk.

It felt good.

Until the red and blues lit up behind her.

She sighed and eased the truck onto the gravel shoulder. Boone barked once, either in solidarity or because he knew this game and liked to make an entrance.

The trooper was young. Not baby-faced, but young enough Kate clocked him as someone who still gave a damn. He had that look, clean uniform, jaw too tight, mirrored shades like he thought they made him unreadable.

“You in a hurry, ma’am?”

Kate gave him her best “I’ve had enough men in uniform for three lifetimes” smile. “Not a hurry, officer. Just finally had a clear stretch of road and a good song.”

Boone whined, then farted like punctuation and got a side eye from his driver. “Damnit, those probiotic bites are supposed to help. At least with being pulled over my window is already down. Damn, Boo,” she scolded as the dog let his mouth open, tongue lolling like he was laughing at her.

The trooper didn’t flinch. At the mid-40s woman talking to her dog, or the stench.

“License and registration?”

She passed it over, smiling the way you do when you know you’re guilty but not sorry. “Kate McKinney. I’m new in town.”

He took the ID, looked it over, and nodded. “Welcome to Franklin County.”

She waited for the lecture. Got something softer instead.

“I’ve worked three wrecks this week. People come in hot, think the roads are clear, and then hit black ice or deer or both. Usually around that bend back there.” He pointed behind him with a tilt of his chin. “I’m not looking to write tickets. Just don’t want to scrape anyone off the pavement.”

Kate blinked. She hadn’t expected earnest.

“Well,” she said, “I appreciate that. I’ll ease up.”

Boone barked, which she decided to interpret as agreement. Probably.

The trooper handed her ID back. “You headed into Bitter Butte?”

“Couple miles past it. Got a place out near Murders Creek.”

He gave a low whistle. “You’re not moving in, you’re escaping.”

Kate shrugged. “Six of one.”