Hunted
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
~ Camilla
His engine roared.
The sound started low, like a growl rolling up from the throat of some hungry, caged thing, and then it swelled. Louder. Meaner. His engine. Tearing like it owned the street. Like it was hunting something.
Like it was hunting me.
My spine snapped straight. The dish in my hand clattered into the sink. Soap and water splashed up my wrist, but I barely felt it. Every part of me froze, except for the place that mattered. That part was already reacting. Already wet.
No. Not again.
I didn’t move. Not because I didn’t want to. My brain was screaming go, go, go. But my body was... listening to something else. Something deeper. Something stupid.
The headlights sliced through the window. Blinding. Accusing. And then—
SLAM.
His car door crashed shut like a threat.
I backed up. One step. Two. My breath stuttered. My heel hit the rug behind me. I should’ve turned and run, out the back, into the night, straight into traffic if that’s what it took. But I didn’t. I stayed.
Because I knew him. I knew that walk.
Heavy boots on the porch. Each step was deliberate. Slow. Like he had all the time in the world to destroy me.
Bang. Bang. BANG.
The front door shook so hard I swore I saw the wood splinter.
“Camilla!” His voice was thunder and broken glass. “Open the fucking door before I rip it off the goddamn frame!”
A fresh pulse of heat between my legs. I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. No. No no no no no. I hated this. Hated how just the sound of him could make me unravel.
I pressed my hand flat to the counter to ground myself. My nails dug into the laminate. My skin buzzed like a live wire. My heart didn’t beat, it pounded, wild and furious, like it wanted out.
The banging stopped.
Silence.
One breath. Two.
CRACK.
The door exploded inward. Wood snapped. The deadbolt ricocheted across the floor.
And then, he was there.
Stephano.
Filling the doorway. Broad chest heaving. Jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping in his cheek. And his eyes, God, those eyes.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
“You got a death wish, baby?” he said, voice low and cold.
The word baby made something inside me twist. I hated how it sounded in his mouth. Like ownership. Like branding.
I spit at his feet.
“You’re disgusting,” I hissed. My voice trembled, but not from fear. From rage. The kind that boils and overflows. “You’re a parasite with a dick. That’s all you are.”
He laughed. Quiet. Dangerous. Like a match scraping against the edge of something dry.
And then he stepped forward.
I backed away without thinking, foot dragging the rug beneath me. My pulse screamed in my ears. Every inch of my skin itched, ready to run, ready to fight.
He smelled like the night and gasoline and sweat. Like trouble. Like thqe end of me.
“You talk real bold for someone dripping down her thighs,” he said, eyes dragging over me like hands.
I slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room. My palm burned. His cheek didn’t even flinch. His gaze locked on mine. And then, he smiled. Slow. Crooked. Like I’d just given him exactly what he wanted.
“You done?” he asked.
“Fuck you,” I snarled. My voice was low. Ugly. Raw with hatred. “I hope you rot. I hope your dick falls off. I hope you crash that car and the only thing left is your teeth in a pool of your own blood.”
He moved before I could blink. His hand tangled in my hair and yanked.
Hard.
My breath choked out of me. He pulled me close, nose brushing mine.
“You done?” he asked again, softer now. Deadlier.
My fists beat at his chest, but it was useless.
His lips skimmed the shell of my ear.
“You think I don’t see it?” he murmured. “That little tremble in your thighs? The way you breathe when I walk in? You think I don’t know exactly what your cunt’s begging for?”
I whimpered.
God help me, I whimpered.
I tried to bite him. He laughed.
“You can fight me all you want,” he whispered. “Scratch, scream, curse me ‘til your voice breaks. But when I’m done, you’re gonna thank me.”
His hand slipped down, grabbed my thigh, lifted it high against his hip.
I slammed my fists against his shoulders. Kicked at his shin. Snarled at him like a cornered animal.
And still, still, my hips rolled. Needy. Shameful. Out of my control.
“You hate me,” he said, dragging his mouth down my neck.
“I do,” I breathed.
“You want me.”
“I hate you,” I snapped, throat tight with tears.
“Same difference,” he growled, and crushed his mouth to mine, and then, pulled away almost immediately.
“Aw, baby,” he rasped, voice rough with smoke and sin. “Miss me that bad? Can smell that pussy crying from the driveway.”
I flinched. My thighs clenched tight.
“Go fuck yourself,” I spat, voice sharp.
He moved fast, quicker than I could dodge. One hand tangled in my hair, the other fisting the hem of my shirt and yanking me against him so hard my breath whooshed out.
His scent hit me first. Leather. Gasoline. Sweat. Sex.
My body arched into him like it wanted this. Like it hadn’t spent the past two days hating him with every cell in my body. Like I hadn’t cried over him, cursed him, promised myself I’d never let him touch me again.
“Keep lying,” he growled against my neck, his breath hot and brutal. “But you’re dripping through those panties. I bet they’re soaked, aren’t they, sweetheart?” He licked a slow stripe up the column of my throat. “Bet I could wring them out and drink from them.”
My knees buckled. Heat flooded me, violent and unwanted. I hated him. Hated the way he touched me. Hated how much my body craved it.
“You’re disgusting,” I hissed. My nails dug into his chest, but it only made him growl. Like I’d scratched a predator instead of warning him off.
“I’m yours,” he snarled. “And this—” his fingers slid down, cupped me through the soaked fabric, pressing hard enough to make me gasp, “—this greedy little cunt knows it. Don’t you, baby?”
I bit back a moan. No. I wouldn’t give him that. I wouldn’t let him have the sound.
He chuckled. “Still trying to pretend you don’t want me. But your pussy’s clenching like it’s begging for my cock. She’s honest, even if you’re not.”
I slammed my fist into his shoulder.
He barely blinked. “Harder, baby. You know I like it rough.”
I hated him. I wanted him. I wanted to bleed him out on the floor and ride his cock while I did it.
“Fucking bastard,” I breathed.
“Language,” he purred, then shoved his thigh between mine. I rocked against it before I could stop myself, and shame scorched up my spine. “That’s better,” he whispered. “Use me. Rub that dirty little cunt all over me. You’ve been aching for it, haven’t you? Lying awake thinking about my cock splitting you open.”
I was. I had. Last night. This evening. Five fucking minutes ago while I did the dishes.
I hated myself for it.
He grabbed my ass, lifted me up like I weighed nothing, and pressed me to the wall. My breath caught. My hips jerked. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.
But he felt so fucking good. So wrong. So him.
“I’ll fuck the hate right out of you,” he growled into my mouth. “Gonna make you scream my name until that venom turns to begging.”
I whimpered. That sound again. That betrayal. My lips curled into a snarl.
“You’re nothing but a filthy obsession,” I spat. “A cock I should’ve cut off when I had the chance.”
He grinned like I’d just proposed marriage.
“Then do it, baby.” He ground into me, cock thick and pulsing beneath his jeans. “Cut me. Bleed me. Just keep dripping on me while you do.”
And I was.
Dripping. Needy. Writhing. So damn wet I could feel the slick sticking to my thighs.
He shoved his hand under my waistband, fingers sliding through my soaked folds. He didn’t pause. Didn’t tease.
He knew the map.
He knew the roads.
And he drove like he was chasing a fucking death wish.
“This pussy’s a liar,” he said. “She says yes every time.”
I sank my teeth into his neck. He hissed in pleasure and I hated him more than ever.
He kissed me like he wanted to punish my mouth for every curse I’d ever thrown at him, tongue invading, teeth scraping, breath-stealing. I clawed at him, nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood, and he moaned like he loved it.
And then—
He dropped me.