Page 25 of Willing Prey

TWENTY-ONE

Claire

Two days after the thunderstorm fuckfest, I’m reviewing assignments in Shane’s living room while he’s at work.

Across the room, Margot’s curled in a leather armchair, laptop balanced on her bent knees as she types.

In the time I’ve been here, I’ve learned that in addition to being Shane’s personal assistant, she’s a virtual assistant for a handful of other business-y types and runs a few social media accounts.

Her fiancé, Jeremy, also works remotely, but he likes to have the house to himself while he does, so Margot works here or at a coffee shop.

The setup seems peculiar to me, but she acts as if it’s normal.

It’s late afternoon, but my eyes are dangerously close to glazing over. Caffeine would help, and sourcing it sounds like a welcome distraction from grading quizzes on the endocrine system. “I’m thinking about making coffee. Would you have some?”

Her eyes peek over the top of her computer. “That would be great.”

Perfect.

It isn’t procrastination if I’m doing something useful, and making coffee that isn’t only for me qualifies.

When Margot follows me into the kitchen, settling herself and her computer at the table, I hide my smile.

It’s funny to think how intimidating I found her the first day, worrying that she wouldn’t like me and things would be awkward.

We’ve settled into an easy routine while Shane’s at the firm—both of us on our laptops, occasionally stopping to gripe about something work-related.

For me, it’s always the classroom portal giving me or the students trouble.

For her, it’s this one client she needs to fire.

Turns out no-nonsense Margot is a people pleaser with a capital P , so I’ve been encouraging her to drop him.

Ironic, considering I’m also a people pleaser.

The coffee maker gurgles. She groans, resting her forehead against her hand.

“Is it the Crock-Pot knockoff guy?” Fishing the creamer out of the fridge, I bump the door closed with my hip.

“Yes. He’s fighting on the Facebook posts again. I hide the troll comments, and he unhides them to argue!” Pushing the laptop away from her, she rubs circles at her temples. “I want to ban him from his own company’s page.”

“You should block him, then act like you don’t know why he can’t see anything. Say it must be a Facebook glitch.”

That makes her snort. “It’s tempting.”

As I pull two mugs from the cupboard, there’s a knock at the door. A glance at Margot shows she’s as confused as me. “Is that for you?” we ask in near unison, both shaking our heads.

“Maybe a delivery?” She heads out of the kitchen.

I pour us both coffees, bringing the mugs and creamer over to the table. Margot’s voice carries, but I can’t make out her words. Someone else is talking too, a deep, masculine voice, but it isn’t Shane’s.

Before I can go be nosy, footsteps approach. Margot walks back into the kitchen, mouthing something I can’t make out. Hot on her heels is a man who looks like Shane. Almost. If Shane had longer hair and was covered in tattoos.

He’s about an inch taller than me, with the same dark hair, broad shoulders, and hard jaw as Shane.

Has to be the brother. The resemblance ends there.

Shane is the king of resting bitch face, possessing unrelenting stoicism.

This man looks ready for mischief, the human equivalent of a cat the instant before it knocks a vase off the mantel.

Tattoos swirl across the tops of his hands and up his arms, geometric shapes and patterns interspersed with realistic-looking flowers, but I barely notice them.

I’m focused on his T-shirt; it’s black with a picture of a sexy zombie lady ripping the heart out of a dead man.

Above the carnage, the words Here for a scary tale ending are written in loose script.

Pun appreciation must run in the family.

The shirt is paired with threadbare jeans smeared with dark paint on the hips and upper thighs, like he couldn’t be bothered to wipe his hands on a rag.

When I shake his hand, there’s no paint on it, and I get the impression he’s sizing me up, taking some sort of inventory.

Discomfort prickles between my shoulder blades at his scrutiny.

He’s openly curious, eyeballing me with an interest that isn’t flirtatious but is more than the usual nice to meet you energy.

“I’m Caine, Shane’s brother.” The introduction comes with a grin that seems like overkill.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Claire.” I smile back but don’t know how to introduce myself: Hi, I’m Claire, I let your brother hunt and fuck me, and also, I think I have a huge crush on him feels inappropriate.

Hooking his thumbs through his belt loops, he leans his upper body back slightly, as if trying to take in the full sight of me. “I know exactly who you are .” The way he pauses before each of the last three words distracts me from their implication, then mortification strikes.

“Caine,” Margot snaps, startling me. I’d nearly forgotten she was in the room, but she’s back at her laptop with a coffee mug. “Pretend you have manners.”

He glances at her and chuckles, then refocuses on me. With a conspiratorial wink, he mutters, “I am always in trouble with that one.” Walking to the coffeepot, he helps himself.

I’m lost, looking to Margot for a reaction. I get an eye roll in Caine’s direction and another mouthed word I don’t understand. Not helpful.

Mug in hand, Caine approaches. “Are we hanging out in here or somewhere more comfortable?”

“We”—Margot points between herself and me—“are working. Why are you here?”

Caine’s energy is unnerving me, and this snappy side of Margot has me confused. It’s like her customer service sweetness rolled out when Caine rolled in, and I’m unbalanced, struggling to find my footing.

“Hi, Caine, I missed you too,” he corrects, dropping into a chair and scooching it closer to hers with an earsplitting squeak.

The glare she shoots him is withering, but he ignores it, peeping at her computer screen. Finding it uninteresting, he answers her question. “I want to see Gretchen before she leaves.” He looks around the kitchen as if she might pop out of a cupboard. “Is she here today?”

As Margot explains Gretchen’s already gone for the day, I contemplate sneaking back to the living room. Would that be rude? Margot catches my eye before I can escape, tilting her head toward an empty chair in an unmistakable sit gesture.

Damnit.

Her movement was subtle, but Caine didn’t miss it. He grins at me, the kind of look my students get before they do something that will inevitably make my life harder. “Claire can’t sit; she has to be ready to run. Shane could be home any minute.”

Oh my god.

Margot’s eyes bug. Warmth slinks up my throat. It’s the kind of blush that no amount of deep breaths can calm. I probably look like a strawberry with a ponytail. Right as I’m trying to figure out how to respond, the faint chirp-chirp of a vehicle auto-locking sounds.

Shane’s home.

Shane

Dusty and dinged, an old white truck rests beside Margot’s car when I pull up to the house.

The crooked Honk and I’ll Haunt You sticker on the back bumper mocks me as I pass.

Caine beat me here. Last night he said he’d stop by to see Gretchen today, and while I know he genuinely wants to see her, I also know he wants to meet Claire.

There’s no way to know which version of Caine is inside talking to Claire.

The sensitive, caring Caine, who bottle-fed a litter of orphaned kittens his freshman year of high school, or the menace to society Caine, who was suspended from school for spray-painting a zombie mural on the basketball court.

I know better than to hope for the earnest, mature Caine from last night.

That side comes out quarterly at most. Somehow, I am the normal brother, and there’s a woman living in my house so I can hunt her .

While I may not have run Claire off yet, that doesn’t mean Caine won’t be too much.

Plus, this close to the end of Claire’s contract, I’d rather be spending my time with her. I may have shared some—possibly too much—information with Caine while drinking, but there’s no way I’m hunting her with him here. That’s a step too weird.

He’s going to traumatize her.

Tensions are high in the kitchen when I walk in. A blushing, uncomfortable-looking Claire, a smirking Caine, and an annoyed Margot.

“Hello.” I side-eye Caine. “How’s everybody?”

A general question, but my attention is on Claire. Somehow, she reddens further but gives me a tight smile.

“Look who’s home.” Caine moves as if coming in for a hug, then wraps his arms around me, pinning mine to my sides, far too tight to be an embrace.

“What are you—”

“I’ve got him. Run, run fast,” he tells Claire.

Bastard.

She flushes deeper, if that is even possible. Driving an elbow into his side makes him grunt and loosen his grip. Shoving his arms away, I glare at him. “Don’t be a fucking jackass.”

“I’m not,” he protests. “I’m trying to help her. Two against one is better odds.”

Claire laughs but still looks shy.

“This is not a multiplayer game.” Each word is clipped, and I hope my stare conveys what I’m not saying verbally.

Shut the fuck up.

“I would hope not.” He scoffs. “Because there’s kink, and then there’s incest.”

“Will you—”

“Caine, had Shane finished building the firepit the last time you were here?” Margot interrupts.

He’s more than happy to pay attention to her. “No, he’d only marked it out with string two dozen times.” Glancing back at me, he adds, “I think he had at least another ten times to go.”

“Nine.” My retort makes Claire laugh, an actual laugh. The sound loosens something in my chest, making more room for air in my lungs.

“Come on, I’ll show you.” Margot stands and marches out of the room without looking back.