Chapter 29
JENNA
Iwake to find myself empty for the first time in hours, and the absence of Nikolai’s cock feels wrong. I hate that I notice. Hate more that my pussy immediately craves him.
The bedroom door opens, and Nikolai enters, geared-up and ready for today’s hunt. He carries a hunting knife and survival pack, which he sets on the bed beside me.
“Four hours,” he says without preamble, his winter eyes tracking over my naked body with obvious hunger. “Four-hour head start this time. The knife is real, the gear is functional. Use them wisely.”
I sit up slowly, reaching for the knife. Test its edge against my thumb. Sharp enough to kill, if I had the opportunity. My eyes flick to his, searching for the trap.
“You’re really going to give me a weapon?”
“I told you I would. I’m making it more interesting.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me examine the blade. “You’ve been learning and adapting. Time to see what you can do when you’re properly equipped.”
“Yesterday’s hunt wasn’t challenging enough for the big bad hunter?”
His lips twitch. “You lasted ninety minutes. Not bad for someone who spent three months playing vigilante in Chicago.”
“Playing?” I spin the knife between my fingers, a casual display of competence. “Tell that to the five collectors who aren’t breathing anymore.”
“Six,” he corrects. “You missed Viktor’s cousin. I cleaned that up for you last week using your signature kill.”
“How thoughtful,” I drawl, forcing nonchalance into my tone. “Should I send a thank-you card?”
“You can thank me later.” His gaze drops to where the sheet barely covers my breasts. “When you’re on your back in the dirt, taking my cock like the good girl we both know you want to be for me.”
Heat floods my core at his words. “Bold assumption.”
“Is it?” He pushes off the doorframe and moves closer. I don’t move from the bed, even when he stops inches away. “Tell me, Jenna. When you killed those collectors, did you think about me? Wonder what you’d do if you could hold the knife against my throat?”
My grip tightens on the knife handle. “I thought about surviving.”
“Liar.” His hand reaches out, fingers ghosting along my jaw. I could cut him. The blade is right there. Instead, I stay perfectly still as he traces my bottom lip. “You thought about me every time you sliced into their throats. Wondered if you’d slice my throat or beg me for cock.”
“Your ego is showing.”
“So is your arousal.” His thumb presses against my lip, not quite breaching my mouth. “I can smell how aroused you are from here.”
I bite his thumb, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make a point. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “That mouth has better uses.”
“Like telling you to fuck off?”
“Like begging me to breed you.” His free hand tangles in my hair. “Which is exactly what’s going to happen when I catch you today.”
“When?” I arch an eyebrow, fighting the shiver his grip sends through me. “Not if?”
“Not if.” He releases me. “Four hours, beautiful. Try not to hurt yourself with that knife. I have plans for that body.”
“Maybe I have plans for yours.” I stand, letting the sheet fall away. His eyes darken as they travel my naked form, and I use the distraction to test the knife’s weight. “Maybe today’s the day you learn what I can really do.”
He laughs. “Is that right? I’ll be seeing you soon, baby.”
The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with a weapon and a choice. I dress quickly in the new athletic gear he has provided, strapping the knife to my hip, shouldering the pack.
I catch my reflection in the mirror—flushed skin, kiss-swollen lips, armed but still marked by his possession. The knife at my hip should make me feel powerful. Instead, it feels like another form of his control. He’s given me a weapon knowing I won’t use it against him. Not really.
Because we both know the truth. I’m not trying to escape anymore. I’m testing him as much as he is me. Trying to challenge him, to make myself a worthy prize.
I test the blade one more time, watching light dance along its edge. In my mind, I see myself spinning when he catches me, steel flashing toward his ribs. I draw blood. He pins me anyway. I take him on the forest floor, still bleeding from a cut I gave him. That’s the fantasy.
The realization should devastate me. Instead, it makes me move faster, heading for the door. Four hours. Four hours to get as far as I can, to make this interesting. To transform from his prey into a predator that might actually challenge him.
Not because I want to escape.
Because I want him to earn it. And because the next time he catches me, I want him to bleed for it.
The morning air hits my lungs like ice water as I burst from the compound. No hesitation this time—I know the terrain now, know where the ridgelines lead and where the valleys trap you. Four hours. Two hundred and forty minutes to become more than prey. As long as he sticks to the head start today.
I head southwest, away from yesterday’s route. The knife bounces against my hip with each stride, a constant reminder of what I could do but won’t. My legs eat up ground, muscles remembering three months of training in underground gyms, of hunting collectors through Chicago.
You’re not trying to escape, my mind whispers as I vault over a fallen log. You’re performing for him.
Shut up. I push harder, breath misting in the cool air. The forest opens into a meadow, and I sprint across, knowing I’m exposed but needing the speed. Yesterday he herded me. Today I’ll make him work for it.
Twenty minutes in, I find a stream. I step into the shallows and follow it upstream to break my trail. The water’s freezing, but I welcome the shock—it keeps me focused on something other than the heat still pulsing between my legs from last night.
He kept his cock inside you for twelve hours. Claimed you even in sleep.
I stumble on a wet rock and catch myself.
Focus.
The stream curves north, and I abandon it, cutting up a steep embankment. My thighs burn, but I embrace the pain. Pain is clarity. Pain drowns out the memory of how good it felt when he—
No.
At the top of the ridge, I pause to scan the valley below. Dense forest stretches for miles, but I spot what might be an old fire road cutting through. Roads mean options. Roads mean—
Roads mean nothing. You could find a car, and you’d still circle back.
My own subconscious is at war with itself. I check the sun’s position. Forty-five minutes down, one hundred ninety-five to go. The knife’s weight pulls at my hip, and I adjust the strap. Such a pretty lie, this weapon. We both know I’d rather die than kill him.
I killed five collectors. Slit their throats while they begged, watched their blood pool on concrete floors. I became what he made me—a predator, a hunter to help women like me kidnapped with the intention of being sold to the highest bidder. But with Nikolai…
With Nikolai, I want to be caught.
The fire road is closer than I thought. I drop down the far side of the ridge, using trees to control my descent. Bark scrapes my palms, but I don’t slow. Can’t slow. If I stop moving, I’ll start thinking about—
His hands. His mouth. The way he calls me baby like he owns the word.
A branch catches my shoulder, and I bite back a curse. Focus, Jenna. You’re supposed to be dangerous now. You’re supposed to be—
His.
The word slams through my defenses, and I actually stop running, hands on my knees, breathing hard. Approximately one hour down based on the position of the sun. Three to go. And I’m already losing the battle inside my own head.
I force myself to move again, jogging now instead of sprinting. I need to pace myself if I’m going to last the full four hours so when he catches me—
When. Not if. Never if.
The fire road is overgrown but passable. I follow it west, every sense alert for sounds of pursuit even though I know he won’t come yet. He’s probably watching me on some satellite feed. The thought should disturb me. Instead, it sends heat spiraling through my core. Let him watch.
Two hours. Halfway point. I’ve covered maybe five miles, zigzagging through difficult terrain. My legs shake slightly, but I push through. The survival pack has water, and I drink sparingly, knowing I need to ration. The knife has shifted, and I adjust it again, fingers brushing the handle.
You could hide. Set an ambush. Make him bleed a little before he takes you down.
The fantasy unfolds before I can stop it: Nikolai stepping into my trap, surprise flickering in his expression as my blade finds flesh. Not deep—just enough to mark him the way he’s marked me. Just enough to prove I’m not weak.
But then what? He’d disarm me in seconds. Pin me down and fuck me right there in my own blood-scented trap, growling about how I need to be taught a lesson. How I need to remember who I belong to.
My steps falter. God, I’m sick. Broken. Three months of killing collectors didn’t fix me—it gave my damage a different shape. I’m still the girl who got aroused in a cage. Still, the woman who came while her captor—
A hawk screams overhead, and I jerk back to awareness. Two and a half hours. The sun’s climbing higher, warming the forest floor. I need to keep moving, need to—
Need to find somewhere good for him to catch you. Somewhere that will make a pretty picture when he breeds you.
The thought arrives fully formed, and I can’t dislodge it. Because that’s what I’m doing, isn’t it? Not escaping. Not even really hiding. I’m setting a stage for my own capture, choosing where I want him to claim me.
Three hours. One to go. My body moves on autopilot now, following game trails deeper into the wilderness. The knife bounces with each step, useless as the wings of a caged bird.
I hate myself for thinking it. Hate him more for being right—I did stay in Chicago hoping he’d find me. I do want this hunt. Want to push him, challenge him, make him work for what we both know he’ll take.
Three and a half hours. My legs burn, and my lungs ache, but I push the final distance. A birch grove spreads before me like nature’s cathedral, shafts of sunlight painting patterns on the forest floor. I slow to a walk, then stop entirely in the center of the grove.
This is where it will happen. This is where I’ll make my last stand before—
Before you spread your legs and beg him to breed you. Again.
I draw the knife, testing its weight one final time. The blade catches sunlight, beautiful and meaningless. I could run more, squeeze out these final thirty minutes. But what’s the point? I’ve already chosen my stage.
Now I wait for the show to begin.
Four hours.
Time’s up, and I’m done running.