14. Predator’s Game

CHAPTER 14

Predator’s Game

WREN

I've got her.

A rush of satisfaction hits me as I study her face—defiance mixed with fear warring with panic, followed by that beautiful flicker of resignation. She knows she’s trapped, but she’s not going to make this easy for me. At least I hope not.

"Get in the car, Ballerina." I gesture to Monty's black Audi idling at the curb, engine purring in the night. "Unless you'd prefer the alternative."

Her eyes dart to the vehicle, then back to me. There’s a flash of something in her eyes, calculation, resolve. For a moment, I think she might bolt, but her gaze drops, and that’s when I know I’ve won this round.

When she moves, it’s with that unmistakable grace I’ve come to crave. But I see it—the cracks forming, the tension bleeding through every step. She’s walking into her own destruction, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. Yet there’s a strength to her stride that I can’t ignore, a resilience that refuses to break, and it fascinates me, holds my attention like nothing else.

At the car door, she falters. Her hesitation draws me closer, my hand brushing the curve of her waist.

A warning. A promise .

"Second thoughts?" My voice is low, soft, as my fingers skim her spine. The slight quiver in her body feeds my hunger. "Think carefully. Not a good idea."

Her shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t look at me. “Why are you trying to scare me?”

“Scare you? No, Ballerina. You’re too smart for that.”

Her lips press into a tight line, and she climbs into the backseat, her movements tight, desperate for an illusion of dignity. I let her have that—for now. I follow her, sitting closer than necessary, my leg brushing hers as the door closes. The sound seals her fate, and Monty pulls away from the curb.

She presses herself against the opposite door, her eyes fixed on the passing streetlights, their brief flashes doing nothing to soften the tension etched into her features, but it highlights something else. She might be in the car, but she hasn’t surrendered to whatever I have planned. Not yet, anyway.

"Where are we going?" Her voice is strained. She’s trying to regain control.

"You’ll see soon enough." I keep my tone light. "But don’t worry, tonight is going to be unforgettable.”

“That’s not comforting.” She looks at me, then away quickly. But not before I see the fear in her eyes.

Her reflection in the window is a study in restraint, the tension in her jaw betraying the fear she tries so hard to conceal. It’s intoxicating, watching her hold the threads of herself together while I tug at each one.

"You're tense." My hand rests on her wrist, fingers curling around it, the delicate bones trembling beneath my grip. Her pulse hammers against my thumb, a wild beat she can’t hide. “Relax, Ballerina. You’ll only make this harder for yourself.”

Her jaw tightens, her body tense as she shifts in her seat. “I’m not tense. I just … don’t want to be here.”

Her honesty is unexpected, and it draws a smile from me. “What you want doesn’t matter. You’re here. That’s what counts.”

I move closer. For a moment she doesn’t speak, and I savor the way her chest rises and falls, the way her fingers curl into fists in her lap. Then her head turns slightly.

“Why are you doing this? Am I some kind of game to you?”

“A game? No. Games are fun. This is … necessary.”

“Necessary for who?”

“For both of us.”

Her lips press together. “You think you can force me into whatever you want. Is that it?”

I laugh. “It’s not about forcing you. It’s about seeing how long you can resist.”

She looks away, gaze fixed on the road ahead, and doesn’t answer me. But her silence speaks louder than anything she could have said.

The bass-heavy beat of the car’s speakers thrums through the silence, Monty’s hand adjusting the volume as he catches my eye in the rearview mirror.

"Music’s good for the mood," he quips, his smirk faint.

I nod, letting the vibrations wrap around us, syncing with the tension in the car. She shifts, trying to put space between us, but I don’t allow it, following her across the seat.

"You always dance to the same songs. What do you think you’d look like moving to something darker?"

“What I dance to is none of your business.”

“Oh, but it is. Tonight, every move you make belongs to me.”

She shifts again, trying to edge away, but I slide my arm behind her back, and rest my hand over her hip, holding her in place. My thumb finds the skin just above the waistband of her pants, and she jerks away at the contact.

“Nervous?”

“What do you think?”

“I think …” I lean closer. “I think you’re trying so hard to pretend you’re not concerned, not scared.” I drag a finger down her throat, and tap the pulse beating at the base. “But this says otherwise.”

“You think knowing that gives you power?” Her voice is tight, fear threading through, no matter how hard she tries to contain it.

“Power doesn’t come from knowing, Ballerina. It comes from acting.”

She doesn't answer, but her pulse races in her throat, a frantic beat I can almost hear. I press my lips to her neck, just below her jaw. Her skin is warm and soft. I let my teeth graze her skin, not biting, just a warning of what I could do. What I will do.

The road narrows, trees closing in, their branches creating a dark tunnel ahead of us. She stares out of the windshield, body rigid as we approach my family’s estate.

“Almost there.” My fingers thread lightly through her hair, stroking the nape of her neck. “Feel that? The anticipation?”

“I just want to go home.”

“Home? But this is so much more interesting, don’t you think?”

Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to.

The car slows as Monty pulls into the driveway.

"Welcome to my world." My hand skims her side, fingers grazing her ribs. "You’ll find it’s nothing like the one you’re used to."

Monty parks near the front steps, the headlights casting harsh beams across the stone facade. The engine cuts out, leaving us in silence so thick it suffocates.

"Out you go," I say, releasing her wrist with a final squeeze.

I open the door, watching her, waiting to see if she’ll run. She hesitates, her hand on the handle. When she finally steps out, it’s with that same grace, but this time it’s hollow—an echo of the control she’s desperately clinging to.

I brush her hair back from her face, my fingers lingering against her neck. The goosebumps rising beneath my touch send a thrill through me.

"Follow me."

She walks ahead of me, her back straight, her movements stiff with resistance. I smile, watching the defiance flare beneath her fear. She doesn’t know where we are. She has no idea what I’m planning. But she’s doing as she’s told because she has no choice.

She’s mine tonight, whether she likes it or not.