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Or is there something more going on here, some deeper motive that I can't even begin to fathom?
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of fear and adrenaline. It doesn't matter. I can't let him get in my head, can't let him distract me from my goal. I have to keep moving, keep running. My life depends on it.
I push myself to my feet, my legs still wobbly but holding me up. I need to get out of here, need to put as much distance between myself and this place as possible. I can't risk him changing his mind, coming back to finish what he started.
I stumble through the underbrush, branches snagging at my clothes and scratching at my skin. But I barely feel it, my mind consumed with the need to escape, to survive.
When I finally break through the tree line, I nearly sob with relief at the sight of the parking lot. My truck is still there, waiting for me like a faithful steed. I half-run, half-limp toward it, my keys already in my hand.
But even as I reach for the door handle, a sickening thought hits me. What if he tampered with it somehow? What if he planted a tracking device, or cut the brake lines, or any of a thousand other nasty surprises?
I can't take that chance. I have to be sure.
I pop the hood, my hands shaking as I run them over the engine, searching for any sign of sabotage. I check the undercarriage, the wheel wells, even the goddamn gas cap. But there's nothing, no hint that he's done anything to my getaway vehicle.
I'm just about to slam the hood closed when my phone buzzes in my pocket, the sudden vibration making me jump like a scalded cat. I pull it out with trembling fingers, my heart sinking as I read the messages on the screen.
The second hunt begins at 7 AM sharp.
Sleep well, little fawn. You'll need your rest for what's to come.
- H
I curse under my breath, my hand tightening around the phone until my knuckles turn white. He's taunting me, the smug bastard. Letting me know that he's still in control, still pulling the strings of this twisted game.
But I won't let him win. I can't. Too much is riding on this, too many lives hanging in the balance. I have to outsmart him, have to find a way to turn the tables and beat him at his own sick game.
I climb into the truck, slamming the door behind me and locking it for good measure. And then I'm peeling out of the parking lot, my foot heavy on the gas as I try to put as much distance as possible between myself and the scene of my capture.
I drive for hours, my mind racing as I try to make sense of what happened. I still can't figure out why Lucian let me go, why he didn't just take what he wanted when he had me at his mercy.
Is it some kind of ploy, a way to lull me into a false sense of security?
Or is there something more to it? Some crack in his armor I can exploit?
I don't know. But I do know that I can't keep running blind, can't just react to his moves like a mouse in a maze. I need to be proactive, need to take control of the game and turn it to my advantage.
When the sun starts to set, painting the sky in shades of fiery orange and deep, bruised purple, I finally pull over at a nondescript motel on the outskirts of some nameless town. I'm exhausted, my body aching and my mind numb with fatigue.
But I can't rest, not yet. I have to make sure I'm safe, have to regroup and come up with a plan.
I pay for a room in cash, not wanting to leave any kind of electronic trail. It's small and dingy, the air stale with the ghosts of a thousand cigarettes. But it's a roof over my head and a door that locks, and right now, that's enough.
I pace the threadbare carpet, my mind whirring as I try to come up with a strategy.
The first step is to get to know my enemy. Lucian is clearly skilled at tracking, able to find me no matter how far I run or how well I hide.
He knows things about me, about my life and my loved ones, that he shouldn't. But I know next to nothing about him, about his weaknesses and his pressure points.
That has to change. If I'm going to beat him, I need to understand what makes him tick. I need to get inside his head, to figure out what drives him and what scares him. And then I need to use that knowledge to destroy him, to bring him to his knees and make him regret ever choosing me as his prey.
But I can't do that if I'm constantly on the run, if I'm too busy trying to stay one step ahead to actually think. I need to let him catch me, need to let him think he's won. And then, when he least expects it, I'll strike.
It's a risky gamble, I know. There's no guarantee that he won't just kill me outright, that he won't take what he wants and then discard me like a used tissue. But it's the only play I have, the only way to get close enough to find his weak spots and exploit them.
I flop down on the bed, my body heavy with exhaustion and my mind still spinning with half-formed plans and desperate strategies. I need to sleep, need to rest and recharge before the next hunt begins.
But every time I close my eyes, I see his face, no longer obscured by that wolf mask. And despite everything, I can't deny the fact that he's drop dead gorgeous. A chiseled jaw, strong yet elegant features, and platinum hair that falls perfectly around a face that belongs in movies. Those piercing gray eyes, that wicked, taunting smile, the way his body felt against mine, both terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
