72. Predators Hunt

CHAPTER 72

Predator's Hunt

WREN

The outskirts of Marshall Cross rise against the night sky. The street lights flicker sporadically, casting faint halos that barely touch the sidewalk. The whole place feels like it’s holding its breath, and so am I.

Two and a half hours of driving. Two and a half hours of nothing but the sound of the engine, and the ache in my chest. Each second feels like an eternity, pressure building, twisting tighter and tighter until I’m on the verge of snapping. Somewhere in this maze, she’s waiting for me.

My ballerina.

The image of her—exhausted, scared, barely holding it together—has been etched into my thoughts since she called me. She shouldn’t have had to run like this. She shouldn’t have had to hide. This isn’t the way a hunt should be. It should be about building anticipation, about desire, about turning fear into need. But the world doesn’t care about what should be, and the only thing that matters now is finding her before they can take her from me again.

A church spire comes into view, and relief rushes through me.

Most churches have unlocked side entrances.

That’s what I told her. It fits where I told her to go. Quiet, inconspicuous, a sanctuary no one would think to search.

I kill the engine and let the silence settle over me. The parking lot is mostly empty, save for a single car, probably the priest’s. My fingers clench the steering wheel before I force myself to let go. Anyone looking through the window would see perfect calm on my face, but beneath the surface, everything burns. The need to see her, to touch her, to confirm she’s still whole, is a storm raging inside me .

My phone buzzes as I step out of the car, but I don’t check it until I’m at the door.

Monty: They’re expanding the search radius. Still think you’re trying to get through their perimeter.

Me: Keep them busy.

The door opens with a slight creak, and I walk inside. The smell of incense and aged wood reaches me, grounding me. The air feels heavy, thick with anticipation. I pause just inside the entrance, giving my eyes time to adjust to the dim light. The faint glow of candles at the altar illuminates the room.

And then I see her.

She’s curled into the corner of a back pew, her knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes closed. The oversized hoodie, my hoodie, swamps her frame, surrounding her like a shield. There’s tension in her shoulders, in the way her fingers clutch at the hem, like holding onto it will keep the rest of the world at bay.

My chest tightens, the relief flooding me so fiercely it makes it hard to breathe. She’s here. She’s safe. But the sight of her like this awakens something darker inside me. Fury. Possessiveness. An all consuming need to ensure no one ever puts her in this position again.

I move closer, eyes tracking over her face as I approach. Her lashes rest against pale cheeks, her lips slightly parted. She looks fragile, breakable, but I know better. Fragile things don’t fight the way she has. They don’t survive.

My phone buzzes again, but I don’t look at it. Nothing else matters now. I found her. She’s mine.

The need to touch her is overwhelming, and my fingers hover just above her cheek. But I don’t cross that final inch. If I let myself go now, I might not be able to control myself. The chaos inside me grows louder, begging for release.

“Time to wake up, Ballerina.” My voice is rough, loud .

Her eyes snap open, wide and unfocused, panic flaring like wildfire. Her body jerks as she scrabbles to straighten, her breath coming in sharp gasps. For a second, she doesn’t see me, doesn’t know it’s me, and the fear in her eyes cuts through me like a blade.

Before she can scream, my hand covers her mouth.

“Shhh.” My other hand cups her jaw, tilting her face toward mine. “It’s me.”

Her body stills, eyes locking onto mine, turning glassy with tears. A broken sound escapes her lips, somewhere between a sob and a gasp, and then she’s moving, launching herself at me with such force it nearly sends us both crashing to the floor.

Her arms lock around my neck, body pressing against mine until there’s no gap between us. She’s trembling violently, her sobs filling the small chapel. I tighten my arm around her, one hand lifting to fist in her hair. “I’ve got you, Ballerina.”

Her legs give out, and I catch her, holding her against me. She buries her face into my chest, her tears soaking into my shirt, but I don’t care. Letting go isn’t an option. Not now. Not ever again.

When she finally lifts her head, her eyes are wild, almost feverish. Her cheeks are streaked with tears, her lips parted as though she can’t catch her breath. Something primal passes between us, electric and undeniable. My hand tightens in her hair. I don’t know if I’m anchoring her to me, or proving to myself that she’s real.

“Let’s get out of here.”

She nods, still shaking, still clinging to me like I’m the only thing that’s keeping her grounded. I guide her along the aisle, down to the exit, her body pressed against mine the entire time, her fingers twisting in the front of my shirt.

“Agent Miller …”

“They’re chasing ghosts. They’ll never touch you again.” I can’t stop the bite in my tone, but it’s not her I’m angry with, it’s them.

Another shudder rocks through her, fingers tightening their grip on my shirt. My arm around her waist keeps her close, and the darkness inside me purrs, satisfied by her response, by the way she yields to me.

When we reach the car, I help her into the passenger seat. Panic flashes across her face when I let go, her hand darting out to grab my wrist.

I crouch beside her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her fingers cling to me, and I lift a hand to rest my palm against her throat and hold her gaze until the panic fades. When her breathing evens out, I round the car and climb into the driver’s seat. My hand immediately finds her thigh, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “I’m never letting you go again.”

She slumps back, her body sinking into the seat as the last of her strength drains away. Her fingers thread through mine where they rest on her leg, her grip fierce.

“Where are we going?” Her voice is tired, small.

“Somewhere safe.” The engine roars to life. I look over at her, my hand flexing against her thigh.

She’s mine now, in every way that matters. Always has been. Always will be.

And no one will ever take her from me again.