Page 3 of Willing Prey

TWO

Claire

Unease swirls and squirms in my stomach as I step out of the shower.

I’ve been in Shane’s enormous house a whole day without seeing him or being summoned, giving me little to tell Sydney when she calls to check on me.

The smartwatch chafes—mentally, not physically.

I should never commit a crime. Besides the fact I’m a horrible liar, an ankle monitor would drive me crazy.

Not that I aspire to be a criminal, but still, it’s helpful to know.

Tapping the screen to check the battery hasn’t died has become an obsession.

Every time it flashes on, proving there’s no technical reason I haven’t been summoned, my frustration grows.

I need to get the first hunt over with. There’s no relaxing until I know how the next thirty—or, since today is technically day one, twenty-nine—days will go.

Margot’s advice rattled me, filling my head with doubts I should have had when Shane first propositioned me.

What if I can’t handle this?

What if he does something that causes irreparable psychological or physical damage?

The contract stated he would be responsible for any medical care I’d need as a result of this job, but does it matter who pays for my hospital stay if he breaks my back and I never walk again?

What if he’s so monstrous in the woods that it steals my love for nature?

What if I leave here too traumatized to enjoy two of my favorite activities: hiking and camping?

When I read the contract, everything seemed reasonable, but now I wonder if my desperation for $30,000 made me overlook red flags.

If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s overlooking red flags.

And he’s a lawyer. Fuck. I signed a contract he wrote without asking anyone else to review it.

At the time of signing, I felt confident in my own ability to spot anything sketchy.

Sitting in Shane’s house, waiting for him to send me a more sinister iteration of a you up?

text, it’s difficult not to wonder if I overestimated my own abilities.

After Margot left earlier, I unpacked and explored the house, hoping to run into Shane.

I never did, so I occupied myself by working out and making dinner.

Now, fresh from the shower, I plan on watching trash television on my laptop until I fall asleep.

Unless he summons me. Maybe that’s his thing.

Lulling prey into believing they’re safe for the night, only to summon them at three in the morning.

Wrapped in a towel, I walk out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

The sun set while I was in the shower. The room is dim, lit only by the bathroom light’s glow.

Rummaging through a dresser drawer, I find a pair of boy-short underwear.

Dropping my towel, I slip them on, then reach for one of the oversized T-shirts I wear to bed.

“Don’t.” The command comes from behind me.

My yelp is as high-pitched as his voice is deep, as unhinged as his voice is composed. Pressed to my breasts, the T-shirt is a flimsy shield as I whirl. My hip catches the open drawer.

Damnit.

From the corner of the room, relaxed in the leather easy chair, Shane watches me. Shadows obscure his face. I can’t see where he’s looking, but I can feel it. The heat of his gaze makes me wonder how I didn’t know he was here, how I didn’t feel him watching the second I stepped out of the bathroom.

“Um, hi.” I try to be polite even though I want to ask him who the fuck just sits in the dark waiting for someone to come out of the shower.

The kind of man who pays someone to be hunted and fucked.

“Did you summon me?” I poke the watch screen without dropping my shirt, suddenly panicked he’s been trying to, and I somehow missed it. What if he’s changed his mind, and I’m being sent home?

“No, I didn’t.” The sound of leather creaking lets me know he’s shifted. His voice is even, almost formal.

My body is on edge, every cell screaming predator .

A man I barely know is waiting for me in a dark room, disregarding normal boundaries, but he sounds so polite .

We could be at the holiday party; a piece of me feels like he’s going to bring up the cat sweater, for fuck’s sake.

It’s unsettling. Is Shane the harmless type of odd?

Or wear-my-skin-to-this-year’s-Christmas-party odd?

“All right.” I’m intensely aware of how he can see me, but I can’t see him. I don’t know what to say. I want to ask him why he’s in here, but it’s his house, so technically, he can be anywhere.

“Are you curious why I’m here?” as if plucked from my brain, the question is asked in that same pleasant voice. It’s deep, almost melodic, and could be soothing under different circumstances. Currently, it’s foreboding in a way that makes me want to start running even though he hasn’t told me to.

“Yes. Margot said you don’t spend much time with prey outside the woods.”

“I don’t,” he says, “but I decided to sample what I’ll be hunting. It’ll make the chase more enjoyable.”

Sir, this is not a Costco.

And sampling wasn’t in the contract.

As I try to figure out if he means he’s truly here for a taste test or if he plans on sitting in the corner and watching me get dressed, he speaks again.

“Do you know your safe word and cue to submit?”

I nod. Wanderlust. Yield. They were on a paper in my folder, tucked right behind the results of his STI test and semen analysis.

Apparently, Shane had a vasectomy three years ago.

Wanderlust means I need to stop because something’s gone too far.

Yield means he wants me to stop trying to fight him off so he can fuck me.

Until he says yield , my job is to keep trying to run, even if he catches me.

The check-in eases my apprehension slightly. If he’s thinking about consent, he isn’t planning on making me into a skin suit.

Probably.

“Good. Get on the bed.” The command is delivered casually. I almost obey on reflex, but catch myself.

This feels like a trap. We’re inside the house, and he didn’t say yield .

“Why?” the firmness in my voice startles me. It must startle him too. I catch a glimpse of his silhouette as he straightens.

“Because I told you to get on the bed.” Each word could be its own sentence. There’s a cautionary note in his voice. The verbal equivalent of a yellow light .

Somewhere beneath the warning, I hear a challenge. My competitive side makes me reckless. I don’t want to pump the brakes. I want to go soaring through the intersection, just to see if I make it across or get smashed by a semitruck.

Life or death.

I slip the shirt I’m still clutching over my head. “Make me.”

I’ve barely said the words when he’s out of the chair, stalking toward me. Backing away from him is instinctive. I step closer to the bathroom, and he follows. As he moves into the light, I can finally see him.

Shane’s wearing jeans, boots, and a black T-shirt.

He’s big, muscled, but not cut—burly in a way that makes me wonder how fast he’ll be during the hunt.

I know better than to assume his size will slow him down, but maybe I can use it to my advantage somehow.

His dark hair is longer on the top than the sides, and unlike the previous times I met him, it’s tousled.

He’s handsome in an outdoorsy way that doesn’t align with his job.

But his stare is what takes him from attractive to sinful.

His deep brown eyes push the needle from hot to I need a new pair of panties even though I just put these on .

The intensity in his gaze is unnerving, but I can’t look away.

I’ve never seen eyes this predatory. They’re hungry.

They’re beautiful. They’re arousing and ravenous, and if I don’t put space between us, I might give in to anything he wants.

Shit.

Maybe that’s why the others got fired.

He’s so hot they forgot they were supposed to run.

Scuttling into the bathroom, I slam the door shut before he reaches me, turning the lock with trembling fingers.

My heart beats like it wants to come careening out of my rib cage.

I just got here and almost fucked up. A rough laugh from the other side of the door lets me know that disobeying was the right move.

Except now I’m trapped. There’s only one window, high on the wall above the toilet.

Since we’re on the second floor, it won’t do me much good.

Life or death.

Get in the game.

I pretend the man on the other side of the door isn’t handsome in a way that makes my throat ache to feel his cock thrusting down it. I pretend he’s a stranger, one who wants to kill me. A lunatic that just broke into my home. That makes determining my next move easy. Something slams into the door.

He wouldn’t kick down his own door.

Would he?

I suppose he has enough money to replace it, but I don’t have time to think about that.

When his next kick rattles the door in its frame, I’m already halfway out the window.

Instead of going down, I go up, crawling and scrabbling onto the roof.

My thighs scrape on the shingles, but I don’t care.

The sound of wood splintering inside the house drives me, adrenaline easing the pain.

Heat builds low between my hip bones, the destruction a dysfunctional aphrodisiac.

He wants me badly enough to kick down his door.

That awareness brings a different kind of rush. It’s an affirmation, a physical answer to the question: How far would you go to have me?

Through his own door, apparently.

The roof’s slope is steep, and varying angles of Victorian architecture stretch before me.

I remember the front porch. Its generous railing could be the perfect place to get down, provided I can get there.

At least he’s on the hook for any hospital bills.

If I end up in the emergency room, I’m asking the nurses for the good meds, since it’s on his tab.

Shane’s frustrated curse echoes out the window. He’s breached the bathroom and found it empty. The window is tiny. I scraped my shoulders slipping through. He can’t follow me. He’ll have to go through the house.

Every step is cautious as I slink toward the front porch overhang.

I have to get off the roof before he gets outside.

Creeping to the roof’s edge, I pause to listen, picturing him racing through the house beneath me.

There’s no front door slamming, no porch boards creaking.

Only my heartbeat in my ears, hard and fast. I swing my legs over the ledge, carefully sliding down. Stretching, I feel with my feet.

Please.

My toes have barely brushed the wooden railing when the front door shuts.

Shit, shit, shit.

Scrambling, I perform a precarious pull-up, trying to get back on the roof.

Arms wrap around my hips, the heat of his clothed body pressing against my bare legs.

My shirt’s rucked up. Shane’s breath tickles my stomach, an erotic sensation that feels out of place in the unerotic situation of hanging from a roof.

As he pulls me closer, the stubble on his jaw drags across my skin.

It feels good on my stomach, would feel fantastic between my thighs.

Focus.

Get away.

Squirming doesn’t do much. I’m in a rough spot. While I want to keep the hunt going, I’m not sure I’m committed enough to fling myself away from him and risk falling. But if I don’t, he’s caught me. Shane tugs my hips further beneath the porch overhang, preparing to yank me down to him.

Life or death.

I kick away from him with a shriek that’s equal parts terrified and frustrated. My fingers slip. I’m falling, the ground coming too quickly for me to do anything to soften my landing. The impact rattles me senseless. Flat on my back on the lawn, I can’t catch my breath.

“Fucking hell,” Shane mutters. Footsteps hurry down the porch stairs.

He can’t catch me.

Not yet.

Air or no air, I have to run. I didn’t almost break my neck to be caught now.

Pain is static at the edge of my brain as I shoot to my feet.

At last, my lungs begin to work again. Sprinting across the yard, I don’t need to look back to know he’s hot on my heels.

I can feel it, the way a rabbit must feel a wolf when it’s closing in.

Tension radiates through my shoulders and neck.

Every step feels like the step , the last step, the final moment of freedom before a predator’s jaws close around my throat.

Away.

Must. Get. Away.

Even though I’m barefoot, I aim for the tree line at the yard’s edge.

There’s nowhere else to go. The farther I get from the light of the house, the easier it will be to hide.

Maybe I can curl up somewhere. Let him walk right by me.

The trees beckon, branches outstretched as if drawing me into their embrace. I can do this. I’m going to make it.

So close.

It’s like getting hit by a truck. Shane slams into me, and I’m flying through space for the second time tonight.

At least I don’t have as far to fall this time.

I land on my stomach, his weight on my back.

It hurts, breath once again forced from my lungs.

My fingers dig into the grass, ripping up handfuls as I try to pull myself from underneath him.

I do about as well as an earthworm trying to squirm out from under a boot.

Life or death.

His cock is hard against my lower back. I’m struggling, but he doesn’t seem concerned about losing his grip. Rubbing his face into my hair, he inhales deeply.

Am I being sniffed?

Why is that sexy?

I slam the back of my head into his nose.

He swears, grip loosening. “What the fuck?”

It’s the distraction I need to buck him off me.

Staggering to my feet, I try to run on quivering legs.

A big hand wraps around my ankle. I hop.

Fighting to keep my balance, I attempt to shake him free.

Shane grabs my other leg and yanks. I fall, barely getting my forearms up to ease my landing.

He’s back on his feet in an instant, hands clamped around my ankles.

There’s no chance to catch my breath before I’m being dragged back toward the house with an insulting casualness.

Thrashing does nothing. Kicking is pointless. When my fingers close around a pinecone, I hurl it at him. Nothing slows his stride. My face is in the dirt. My stomach and breasts slide and scrape over the ground as my shirt rides up.

It’s brutal.

Degrading.

Obscene.

I fucking love it.