Prey Drive by Jen Stevens
Chapter 8
the wolf
time sending over a ridiculously high number for the Styx cottage. I'm barely settled in my office for the day when I receive the email.
It took longer than usual for me to get my own car parked in my carport on Monday morning after driving back into the city from Styx last week before my driver, Sterling, pulled up to pick me up in his. We drove straight through New York morning traffic to my building, already two hours late for my meetings. I have no issues driving an endless number of hours on the expressway with no breaks, but New York City traffic is enough to make me want to blow my head off. Road rage is a real thing, and it's something I've yet to get used to since moving here. I hired Sterling within my first year of moving Lancaster Tech into an office and out of my old apartment, and I haven't looked back. He's far better equipped to handle the ridiculously congested city than I am.
I was immediately met outside the elevator by my assistant, Eliza, who wasn’t shy about letting me know she was irritated with my late arrival. She prattled on about my adjusted schedule since I got home later than expected, and I barely sat down on my chair after getting my ass chewed out before my phone vibrated with his email.
I'm not even dignifying his request with a response. Instead, I forward the email to my realtor and ask her to pull up comps in the area, then head into my next meeting for the day, avoiding Eliza’s glare from her open office door.
She’s a middle-aged, single mother of four adults who doesn’t take shit from anyone. Her personality is more akin to a rottweiler than a personal assistant, and I’m waiting for the day she realizes I’m hardly worth her time. She's also the only person who is allowed to talk to me the way she does—more disciplinary than my own mother. But she cares about my company and what we’re doing for the world and, thankfully, that’s been enough to get her to stay.
I always manage to thaw her ice-cold attitude.
The rest of my week follows the same chaotic pattern. I'm caught up in meetings and work that goes well into the night, barely taking time to sleep in my own bed before I'm back in the office the following day.
My realtor has a deal settled with my father by Friday afternoon and promises to have the paperwork ready by Monday.
“Your dad really didn't want to negotiate much. You're overpaying by a lot, and the area isn't the best. Are you sure this is what you want?” she asks over the phone.
She thinks I'm making a mistake. And maybe I am. But I'm too deep into it to give a fuck about that right now.
I can't have his tenant snooping around. Not when I'm this close to the finish line.
“I'll pay whatever he says. It has sentimental value,” I explain to Chantel as Sterling pulls up to my home.
I'm already planning on jumping into my car and driving upstate as soon as he pulls away. I barely managed to thaw Eliza’s cold shoulder for arriving so late to the office on Monday before she found out I was leaving again. She’s made it well-known to me that she’s pissed. We’re supposed to be preparing for our presentation next week to take over another tech firm and expand our reach. I should be spending the weekend making sure I’m ready, and she knows it.
When I packed my laptop into its case and told her I’d be unavailable for a little while, the glare she sent my way could have burned holes into my chest.
“Are you sure you want to forgo the inspection and appraisal?” Chantel asks, interrupting the memory.
“Positive. Let Eliza know when the papers are ready, and we'll get a carrier to pick them up.”
We end the call just as Sterling stops the car. Eliza’s worries are misplaced. I know my company well enough to make that presentation blindfolded. Even if I hadn’t spent the past two weeks looking over data, I’d be well prepared. Besides, I have more pressing matters at the moment. The house may not be mine yet, but I'm still going to make sure everything is in order.
I should take her car in the driveway as a sign to leave. It’s late by the time I’m coasting down her street, and I have no idea if she’s told anyone about our encounter last weekend. So, I should go.
But I don’t.
Instead of turning my car around and remaining undetected the way I know that I should, I’m fastening the mask over my mouth that I use when I'm stalking or collecting my victims, then sneaking through the garage again, testing the door to the kitchen. My heart kicks up when I find that it’s unlocked and I take that as a sign to keep going, carefully stepping into the dark room.
Small traces of her stand defiantly against the lavish pieces my mother and sister curated for the space. I remember them talking obsessively over it the first time we were all dragged out here, when Sienna moved into her apartment with Mallory and started her first semester. The place was completely bare, the rooms outdated. My father hadn’t added the workshop then, either.
Within two months, the cabin was gutted and remodeled. It was such a frivolous waste of money, given the place would hardly be used any more than the other properties our family owned. But it gave them something to bond over. An experience I'm sure my mother looks back on and appreciates now that Sienna's gone.
Now, with this new tenant's belongings sprinkled about, everything looks much more ridiculous and out of place. This is Styx, not our beach house in the Hamptons. They were clearly trying to make it something it wasn't.
Alcohol cans line the counter and a pile of dirty dishes sits in the sink. Her shoes have been haphazardly kicked off along the wall and three coats lay flung across one of the kitchen chairs. I walk past her small messes with equal parts wonder and disgust. Grabbing one of the jackets, I inhale her scent—a strong mix of coconut, vanilla, and coffee.
I can't stand how addictive I find it. Such a stark contrast from the strong floral scent of Chanel No. 5 that Mallory and all the other women I've hooked up with douse themselves in.
Carefully placing the jacket back onto the chair, I tell myself it's part of the hunt. Just a step in the process. Though, I've never gone this far with my previous victims. Not until right before I captured and killed them.
Before I can get any more confused by my feelings, I push on through the house. Most of it remains untouched by her.
She’s taken the master bedroom. Her sleeping form is sprawled across the mattress, her soft snores the only sound that fills the cool night air. Even my footsteps are silent as I make my way across the plush carpet and into the nearly empty walk-in closet.
It's scarce. No designer dresses or one-of-a-kind pieces. No ridiculously priced shoes or outrageous hats. She's nothing like the women I'm used to. There's a pile of dirty clothes sitting in the corner, as if she can't even be bothered with aiming for the laundry basket right beside it. A cheap pair of black heels rests beside a beaten-up pair of snow boots, and the few hangers only hold jeans and cotton t-shirts.
Whoever she is, she doesn’t have much. I can’t imagine she can afford whatever ridiculous price my father is surely charging her for rent on her own.
Which makes me wonder if she has any roommates. Maybe a boyfriend…
I turn back toward her so my eyes can openly roam over her body—scantily dressed in a simple white tank top and underwear. The tank has ridden up her abdomen, exposing tanned skin and a pierced belly button. Dusky nipples peek through the translucent fabric, leaving little to my imagination. Her legs are slightly spread open, offering a teasing taste of what’s between without fully exposing her.
I’m hoping that, if anything, it’s the former. I suddenly can’t stand the idea of another man having access to her like this now that I've decided she’s my prey.
As if I'm magnetized toward her, my feet move on their own accord to take me to the bed, but a floorboard creaks and I’m stopped in my tracks, slinking back into the safety of the shadows. She releases a quiet moan, the sound of it going straight to my groin as I linger in the doorway, shrouded by darkness. She sits up and squints like the movement hurts her head. Based on the number of cans I saw in the kitchen and the alcohol she’s likely consumed, it probably did.
Why are you drinking alone, little lamb?
Her dark eyes scan the room once, skirting right past me, before she falls back onto her pillow, tugs the blanket over her body, and falls back asleep.
I wait until she's snoring again before I walk toward the bed, staring down at her with so much resentment for what she's making me do to her. For how I have to destroy her. Under different circumstances, I would love to devour this woman. I have a feeling she's scrappy enough in bed to give me exactly what I need. What the others never could.
My fingers lightly grasp the blanket and tug it back down, exposing her top half to me again. Her chest rises and falls with each steady breath, the tank top tightening against her breasts every time it does. I hover my hand over her neck, tempted to close the distance and end this right now. It would take the smallest amount of pressure in just the right spot to cut off her airways. It would be over before she even realized what was happening.
I almost do it. My skin lightly brushes hers as I line my fingers up with the exact place they need to be.
But she stirs beneath my touch, shifting my hand from her neck onto her chest, and I freeze in place above her. Her heartbeat thumps against my palm, her skin warm beneath my icy touch. Those long, dark lashes flutter open, revealing round, near-black irises.
She gazes up at me—not in horror, but something else entirely. It's like she's looking at me, but doesn't quite see me. Her eyelids stay at half-mast as she grabs my wrist and slides my hand down, over her breast. And then, she shocks me even more by pushing her tit against my palm.
Her head falls back to the side, eyes closing as she arches her back, applying more pressure. Another breathy moan escapes her lips as she snakes her hand down her abdomen and beneath the blanket.
I'm stunned silent. My eyes track her movements under the blanket while she pushes herself into my hand and I'm genuinely confused.
Do you know I'm here?
My fingers trail over her hardened nipple, testing her reaction. She hisses out a breath and shoves herself back against me.
I notice her hips moving back and forth as she rides her own fingers, and I'm ripping the blanket off her with my free hand before I can stop myself. This entire display has shifted me into a different type of predator.
My erection presses so hard against the unforgiving material of my jeans, I have no choice but to undo the button and let it out.
I need relief.
Relief and control.
I can't even begin to think of the consequences of her fully waking up and finding me like this. Standing over her with one hand kneading her breast while the other strokes my cock. I shouldn't be witnessing this. I sure as hell shouldn't be touching her.
But holy fuck, is she hot right now.
One hand works beneath her panties, hips bucking forward as her orgasm builds while the other twiddles the breast I'm not touching. The pure, unadulterated way she's pleasuring herself speaks directly to a primal side of me that I never knew existed. It's like her body senses I'm here, and it's simply reacting to me.
I've never seen a woman so brazen. Sure, she's half-asleep and likely unaware she has an audience, but something tells me she'd act the same way regardless.
I can tell she's getting close by the way her breaths quicken, her movements more desperate. My balls tighten, the familiar heat of an orgasm wrapping around my spine as if the knowledge I'm about to watch her fall apart is enough to make me do the same. I'm debating whether it would be less noticeable if I pulled away from her now, or after she finished, when she goes still beneath me. She shudders out a breath, thrusting her hips one last time before a loud moan fills the room, and then she relaxes again, her breathing evening out.
My own orgasm follows shortly after, with no warning. I was so caught up in hers, I barely noticed until my cum sputtered out onto her sheet. I quickly rip my hand away from her to catch the rest of it before I make an even bigger mess, stifling a moan as my eyes roam over her center and I notice the wet spot on her panties.
I decide then that I have to taste her before I kill her.
Not now. It would be too risky, and I won't violate her any more than I already have.
No, when her juices finally coat my tongue, it'll be because she begged me to do it. Then, I'll take her life.
For now, I pad over to the master bathroom and clean myself off. My reflection feels like a feral stranger looking back at me. I hardly recognize myself anymore, don't know the side of me who pleasures strange women while they lie there unknowingly.
I felt the same way the first time I murdered someone. Perhaps this is the same thing. A new addiction to feed.
I don't even know her name, but I will soon.
Adjusting myself, I give one last look in the mirror before I head back into her room. I was going to attempt to clean my cum off of her sheets, but decide against it at the last minute.
There's something incredibly satisfying about knowing she's sleeping with my seed. I almost want her to wake up and find it. To run her hand through the sticky puddle and wonder what the hell happened. My cock tightens again at the mere thought.
No, I'm not cleaning it up.