Page 8 of Hunted to the Altar
Said she probably went on a break. Needed “space.”
But Iknewbetter. Her car was never found. She hadn’t gone back to her place. She’d vanished without a trace, and for someone as prolific as she was, it didn’t make sense that more people weren’t concerned about her whereabouts.
Then she just popped up in Italy, had her new husband call the local authorities to let them know she’d never been missing. That she was working with girls who were a part of a sex trafficking ring and had to go dark.
So quiet she couldn’t let her best friend know she was going to be gone?
No. I didn’t know if Mya was on drugs or if there was something more sinister at work. I couldn’t allow myself to care. Not after what I’d been through. I wished with all my heart that she was safe, but now?
I couldn’t give a damn.
If my so called best friend could ghost me and make mebelieve she was basically dead in a ditch, then she wasn’t really my best friend to begin with. I sank to the floor at the realization.
Was I just a paycheck to her? Someone she could practice her skills on? Whatever the reason for her befriending me, it was all lies. Mya was never my friend and now, I finally believed it.
CHAPTER THREE
Samuel
The streetlights castfractured halos against the slick pavement, their glow dim and flickering in the damp evening air. I stood watching from the shadows, waiting for a glimpse of her.
After my last visit—when I stood over her while she slept and marked her space with my presence—she was a lot more paranoid.
It was laughable to watch her try to change her routines. She picked up her panties for the most part and placed them in her drawers or laundry bin. Unless she was in a rush, she put away her dishes.
But that wasn’t going to stop me.
It brought me a small sense of pleasure to watch her scramble around her home every night. She locked the doors and windows, peeking out of the curtains. But I knew she couldn’t see me.
If I wanted her to, I would step right into the light and show her I was here. Watching. Waiting. Tonight, she looked beautiful. I could see her curls as she tossed them up in some kind of silky looking cap on her head.
I'd linger in her space close enough to breathe the same air, as well as knowing what her pillowcases were made of, all while leaving traces of my presence she'd never see but I knew were there.
The next day, Nina had just returned from the library. I followed her around like a damn puppy, my thoughts consumed by her.
She hurried, her head bowed against the breeze that whipped through the city. Every step she took pulled her further away from the darkness of my world and closer to safety.
She was an obsession I couldn’t shake.
I wasn’t supposed to feel like this. I wasn’t Silas. I’d spent my college years disgusted by all the awful things he’d done to Eden, who was his next door neighbor he stalked and defiled. Now, she was his wife, and he was still up to the same old antics. But now, here I was doing much of the same.
A sicko like him.
I guess I couldn’t understand what I’d never gone through. The world was full of weak men and overburdened women. I didn’t see that until I met Nina.
But she was supposed to be a mission. From the moment I first saw her photograph, months before she went missing, I was hooked. Even though she was but a file on Don Caputo’s desk.
A loose end.
I knew it was her. She couldn’t hide from me. Her dark curls were wild beneath a baseball cap. The curve of her jaw, the faint, graceful movements of her hands as she clutched her bag to her side—everything about her burned itself into my memory, abrand I couldn’t escape. Her skin, a warm, rich tone that reflected her heritage, shimmered faintly in the dim light, and those pale, storm-blue-gray eyes darted around the street like a hunted animal.
She felt me. I could see it in the tension in her shoulders, the way her breath quickened when she thought no one was watching. She knew someone was there. Maybe not me specifically, but her instincts were sharp. That’s what surviving did to a person—it honed them into something raw, something more alive. My little bunny was no exception.
She didn’t know how close I was. How easily I could reach out and take her. And yet, I held back.
My little bunny turned another corner, her silhouette framed briefly in the light of a passing car. I tracked her like a wolf on a hunt. She was almost home now, her small apartment building looming just ahead. I’d been there, of course. I’d moved through her apartment like a phantom, taking in the scent of her shampoo, the way her books rested by the bed, the worn blanket that bore the shape of her body.
It was a quiet invasion, one carved from need, not forgiveness—and certainly not permission. But I didn’t care. Forgiveness wasn’t something I sought. Control was. And Nina, whether she realized it or not, was mine.
