Lycan's Prey by Jessica Hall

Chapter 67

Bree’s voice is quick, clipped with the same urgency she’d use if the room were on fire–which, metaphorically, it might as well be. “I think I’ll go take a shower. Your turn to plan. I am sick of planning our sham,” she blurts out.

“Don’t you dare!” I tell her.

“Double dare me?” she laughs.

“Wait!” The word bursts from me, loud and desperate. “You can’t leave me with her!”

Bree’s back is to me, her shoulders set in determination, but she pauses just long enough to toss a glance over her shoulder. “She’s your mother, not mine.” The words are swift, like the swipe of a claw, severing any hope I had of her staying. “Tell your mother I’ll be back soon,” she adds.

My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I watch her retreat. Her eagerness to escape the wedding insanity my mother has started is palpable, even funny in a way that makes my chest ache with a wild mix of amusement and panic. Yet the joke’s on me as she leaves me to fend for myself.

I’m left standing amidst the ruins of our ‘perfect day‘, the irony not lost on me. If only these catalogs could plan a way out of this mess–a real–life escape route printed on their glossy pages. But alas, they’re just paper dreams, and I’m still here, knee–deep in the madness of the mess I created.

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a storm cloud ready to burst with endless chatter of cake toppers and calligraphy fonts. A groan escapes me,

him to escape. her. An excuse to leave would’ve been golden right now- anything to escape the impending doom of another round of decisions over which I hold no sway.

eerily quiet library, I push myself off the bookcase. My eyes dart to the library door, wondering what my chances are of her not seeing me. My footsteps are light, almost silent, as I peer out the door. I don’t see her, but I can sense her, the floral perfume that always announces my mother’s presence mingling with the scent of old books in the library. Her voice, light and carefree as she debates the merits of flowers for the umpteenth time, nudges me into action. No more catalog purgatory

them, don’t you think?” she muses aloud to some poor maid just as I seize the moment. I make a mad

his doorway, the very picture of knowing mischief. “Running from

under my

smirk widens, the barb hitting

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Chapter 67

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back. Instead, I shoot him a glare meant to silence any