Chapter 37
JENNA
The knife feels natural in my grip now, weighted perfectly for my hand. Three weeks of training with Nikolai have rewired my instincts—where once I saw shadows as threats, now I see them as cover. Where once I calculated escape routes, now I map hunting grounds.
“Your stance is still too defensive.” Nikolai circles me in the compound’s training room, his movements predatory even without the mask. “You’re thinking like prey.”
I adjust my feet, lowering my center of gravity. The blade becomes an extension of my arm rather than a foreign object. “Better?”
“Better.” His approval sends warmth through my chest. “But hunting isn’t about the weapon. It’s about the mindset.”
He’s been drilling this into me for weeks—teaching me to track, to read micro-expressions, to predict behavior patterns. Not because he wants another captive, but because he wants a partner. An equal.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes my pulse quicken with anticipation.
“Tomorrow we go into the forest,” he says, stopping in front of me. “Real hunt. Real stakes.”
“What kind of stakes?”
His eyes darken. “If you catch me, you get to keep me for the night. Do whatever you want with me.”
Heat pools between my thighs at the promise in his voice. “And if you catch me?”
“Then I remind you why you belong to me.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “But I don’t think I’ll need to.”
That night, I lie awake planning. Nikolai taught me his methods, but he also revealed his patterns. His confidence in those patterns might be his weakness.
By dawn, I’m ready.
The forest stretches endlessly in morning mist, dense enough to swallow sound. Nikolai gives me a thirty-minute head start—longer than usual because today, I’m the hunter.
I move northeast, leaving obvious tracks for the first quarter mile before doubling back along a stream bed.
The water masks my scent and footprints while I establish a wide circle around the compound.
Nikolai will expect me to pursue him, to rely on the tracking skills he taught me.
Instead, I’m going to use what he couldn’t teach me—the survival instincts of someone who learned to disappear.
Twenty minutes into my hunt, I find his first marker: a broken branch at shoulder height. He’s heading toward the ridge, probably planning to use elevation and sightlines to his advantage. Classic Nikolai.
But I know something he doesn’t know that I learned.
During our sessions, I watched how he moved when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
He favors his left ankle—an old injury that makes him unconsciously adjust his weight distribution on uneven terrain.
He’ll avoid the steepest approaches and choose paths that minimize strain.
I abandon his trail and cut directly toward the granite outcropping two ridges over. If I’m right about his route, he’ll emerge from the tree line exactly where I’ll be waiting.
The climb burns through my calves, but months of training have built endurance I never had before. My breathing stays controlled as I reach the rocks and settle into position. Through the scope on the tranquilizer rifle he insisted I carry for “safety,” I scan the forest below.
Nothing.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. Doubt creeps in—maybe I misread his patterns, maybe he changed his approach, maybe—
Movement. A flash of dark tactical gear between the trees, exactly where I predicted.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I track his progress through the scope. He moves with fluid confidence, unaware he’s being watched. The predator has become prey, and the role reversal sends a jolt of electricity down my spine.
He pauses at the tree line, scanning the ridge above. Looking for me in the wrong direction.
I have one shot. If I miss, he’ll disappear, and this becomes his hunt again.
I breathe out slowly and squeeze the trigger.
The dart catches him in the shoulder. He spins toward the sound, eyes finding me among the rocks with deadly accuracy. Even sedated, even caught, his gaze is absolutely predatory.
“Clever girl,” he calls out, voice already starting to slur. “How long did you—”
His knees buckle. The drug works fast and is designed for targets his size.
I scramble down from the rocks as he collapses against a pine tree, struggling to stay conscious. Up close, I can see the mixture of pride and arousal in his expression.
“You hunted me.” His words are thick, pupils dilated. “Actually fucking hunted me.”
“I learned from the best.” I kneel beside him, checking his pulse. Strong and steady despite the sedative. “How does it feel to be caught?”
“Like I want you to do terrible things to me.” His hand reaches for my thigh, fingers clumsy but insistent. “The dart won’t last long. Maybe twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes to get him secured. Twenty minutes before the hunter becomes dangerous again.
I’ve prepared for this.
The rope I brought is military grade, the same type he used on targets during training exercises. His wrists bound behind the tree trunk while his legs remain free as he sits at the base of the tree—I want him mobile enough for what I have planned.
“Jenna.” He tests the bonds, already more alert than he should be. His metabolism processes drugs faster than normal, another gift from his conditioning. “What are you going to do to me?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I pull out the tactical knife he gave me weeks ago and watch his pupils dilate further.
“You taught me that fear makes prey predictable,” I murmur, running the flat of the blade along his jaw. “But you never told me what it does to predators.”
His breathing changes, becoming deeper. “You’re not going to hurt me.”
“No?” I press the knife’s edge against his throat, just enough pressure to make my point. “You said I could do whatever I want with you.”
“Fuck.” The word comes out strangled, his cock hardening visibly against his tactical pants. “You’re enjoying this.”
I am. The power, the control, the way his winter eyes watch my every movement with desperate intensity—it’s intoxicating in a way that should disturb me. Instead, it feels like coming home to a part of myself I never knew existed.
“You made me into a hunter,” I tell him, trailing the knife down his chest. “Did you think I’d only hunt others?”
The blade cuts through the fabric of his shirt like butter, exposing the tattooed skin beneath. His breathing hitches as I trace the ink with the knife’s tip—not cutting, just grazing.
“Jenna.” My name sounds like prayer and profanity combined. “Please.”
“Please what?” I straddle his thighs, the knife still pressed against his sternum. “Please stop? Please continue? Please cut you?”
“Please don’t stop.” His honesty surprises us both. “I’ve never—no one’s ever hunted me before.”
The vulnerability in his admission makes my chest tight. This man, who was engineered to be the perfect predator, has been reduced to begging by a woman with a blade. The role reversal shouldn’t work, but it does. God, it does.
I lean forward and bite his lower lip, tasting blood. He groans against my mouth, straining against the ropes.
“You like being caught,” I whisper against his lips. “You like being helpless.”
“Only for you.” His hips buck upward, seeking friction. “Only ever for you.”
The knife moves lower, cutting through his belt with deliberate intent. Each stroke of the blade makes him tense, muscles coiling under scarred skin. When I free his cock, it’s already leaking, flushed dark with need.
“Look at you.” I wrap my fingers around his length, thumb brushing over the Prince Albert piercing that’s become so familiar. “The mighty hunter, tied to a tree, begging for his captive’s touch.”
“Your hunter,” he corrects, voice raw. “Your captive. Whatever you want me to be.”
I stroke him, watching his face contort with pleasure and frustration. The knife remains in my other hand, a constant reminder of who holds the power now.
“I want you desperate,” I tell him, increasing my pace until his breathing becomes ragged. “I want you to understand what it feels like to be completely at someone else’s mercy.”
“I understand.” His head falls back against the tree bark. “Fuck, Jenna, I understand.”
But I’m not finished with him yet.
I release his cock and stand, ignoring his sound of protest. My own clothes come off—sports bra, tactical pants, boots. Everything Nikolai gave me, everything that marks me as his.
Naked in the dappled sunlight, I feel powerful in a way I’ve never experienced. Not the desperate strength of survival, but the confident authority of a predator who knows her prey is already caught.
“You taught me to read people,” I say, settling back onto his lap. “To see what they want before they know it themselves.”
His cock twitches against my thigh as I position myself just out of reach.
“What do I want, Nikolai?”
“You want to claim me.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “You want to make me yours the same way I made you mine.”
“Good hunter.” I reward him by sinking down slowly, taking just the head of his cock inside me. “But that’s only part of it.”
He fills me gradually, the piercing adding texture that makes my nerves sing. But I control the pace now, rising and falling with deliberate torture that keeps him on the edge without letting him fall over.
“Tell me what else I want,” I demand, the knife tracing patterns across his chest.
“You want—” He gasps as I clench around him. “You want to be the predator.”
“Yes.” The word hisses out as I take him deeper. “You made me dangerous, and now I’m going to show you exactly what you created.”
I set a rhythm that drives us both toward madness—slow enough to keep him desperate, deep enough to make my own vision blur. The knife stays pressed against his skin, a silver line of threat and promise.
“You feel so good,” he pants, straining against the ropes. “So fucking perfect.”
“You don’t get to come until I say so.” My free hand tangles in his hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat. “You don’t get to do anything until I decide you’ve earned it.”
I can feel his restraint fracturing, see the moment when the civilized man disappears and only the primal need remains.
“Please.” The word breaks from him like a confession. “Please, Jenna, I need—”
“What do you need?” I bite his earlobe.
“I need you to take what’s yours.”
The admission shatters me. Not the careful control I’ve built, but the last pretense that this is just physical. This isn’t about sex or power or even revenge. This is about recognition—two broken people finding the exact shape of their damage.
I move in earnest, rising and falling with increasing urgency. The knife traces abstract patterns across his skin, never breaking the surface but promising I could. His muscles bunch and release beneath me, testing the bonds that hold him.
“You’re mine,” I gasp as the pleasure builds. “Say it.”
“I’m yours.” The words come out strangled. “Yours to hunt, yours to catch, yours to keep.”
“Mine to hurt if I want to.”
“Yes.”
“Mine to heal if I choose to.”
“God, yes.”
The knife’s edge finds the hollow of his throat as my rhythm becomes erratic. One small movement would open his carotid artery. One moment of lost control would end everything.
He looks up at me with absolute trust, and I understand this is what he’s been offering from the beginning. Not just his body or his protection, but his life. Complete and utter surrender to someone who knows exactly how dangerous he is.
The realization pushes me over the edge. My orgasm crashes through me with violent intensity, clenching around his cock as I cry out his name. The knife trembles against his throat but doesn’t break skin.
“Now,” I command through the aftershocks. “Come for me now.”
His release tears through him, spine arching as he empties himself inside me. My name falls from his lips like a prayer to a dark god, reverent and desperate.
We rest together, both breathing hard. The knife falls from nerveless fingers to land in the pine needles beside us. In the aftermath, I can feel the shift—not just in our bodies, but in the fundamental dynamic between us.
I’m no longer just his captive who learned to fight back. I’m his equal in violence, his partner in darkness. I’m the thing that hunts the hunter.
“Untie me,” he murmurs against my neck.
“Not yet.” I remain seated on his softening cock, keeping him inside me. “I’m not finished with you.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “What else do you want from me?”
I pick up the knife again, testing its weight. “I want you to understand that when I stay with you, it’s not Stockholm Syndrome or conditioning or fear. It’s a choice.”
“And this proves that?”
“This proves I’m not your victim anymore.” The blade traces the line of his jaw with feather-light pressure. “I’m your accomplice.”
“My partner,” he corrects softly.
“Your partner.” I cut through the ropes with quick, efficient movements. “In everything.”
His arms come around me immediately, hands mapping the places where adrenaline has left me shaking.
“The others are going to sense the change,” he says eventually.
“Good.” I lean back to meet his eyes. “Let them know I chose this. All of it.”
We dress slowly, neither wanting to break the spell of what just happened. As I slide the knife back into its sheath, I catch him watching me with an expression I’ve never seen before.
“What?”
“You’re beautiful when you’re dangerous.”
“I learned from watching you.”
He pulls me against him for a passionate kiss. When we break apart, his pupils are still dilated with more than just physical satisfaction.
“Ready to go home?” he asks.
Home. The word should feel wrong applied to a criminal compound full of broken men who’ve built their lives around violence. Instead, it feels exactly right.
“Lead the way, hunter.”
His grin is sharp as a blade. “After you, hunter.”
We walk back through the forest side by side, equals in darkness, partners in whatever comes next.