Page 42 of Hunt Me
I kick off my heels, grab them by the straps.
Ten minutes to disappear.
My body hums with anticipation as I choose the stairs, climbing two at a time. The second floor opens into smaller rooms—offices, maybe. More places to hide.
More corners for him to search.
I bite my lip, pulse pounding in my throat.
Find me, Alexi.
I find my spot on the third floor—a maintenance closet tucked behind what used to be a break room. Metal shelving units create a narrow gap against the back wall, just wide enough for me to wedge myself into.
Perfect.
I press my back against cold concrete. My breathing sounds too loud in the enclosed space, heart hammering against my ribs.
Somewhere below, a door slams.
“Ready or not.” Alexi’s voice echoes through the empty building, carrying up through broken floors and shattered walls. “I’m coming for you, Iris.”
Heat floods through me at his words. My thighs clench involuntarily.
This is ridiculous. Waiting in the dark while he hunts me like prey. Every logical part of my brain screams that I should’ve gone home, should’ve blocked his number, should’ve disappeared like I’m good at doing.
But my body doesn’t care about logic.
My pulse throbs between my legs, each beat a reminder of how badly I want to be caught. How badly I want his hands on me when he finds me.
When. Not if.
Footsteps on the stairs—steady, unhurried. He’s taking his time, enjoying this as much as I am.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper. My dress rides up my thighs as I shift position, silk whispering against skin. The darkness feels thick, oppressive. Anticipation coils tighter with each passing second.
Another door opens somewhere close. Hinges screech.
“You’re good at hiding,” he calls out. “But I’m better at finding.”
My breath catches. He sounds closer now. Same floor, maybe.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to control my ragged breathing. Trying to ignore the slick heat gathering between my thighs, the way my nipples harden against the thin fabric of my dress.
This is just adrenaline. Just fear response.
Liar.
More footsteps. Closer. The methodical sound of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, who’s done this before in different contexts—hunting through systems, tracking digital footprints.
Now he’s tracking me.
The arousal builds with each approaching step until I’m trembling in the darkness, desperate and terrified and more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life.
The break room door groans open.
My entire body locks up, every muscle rigid. Through the crack in the shelving, I watch his silhouette move across the doorway. Tall, lean, methodical in the way he scans the space.
“You breathe too loud,” he says. “I can hear you from here.”
