Lycan's Prey by Jessica Hall

Chapter 68

Yet before I beat my brother, my Mother’s voice grows closer, laced with authority and the saccharine sweetness reserved for wedding talk. “Has anyone seen Soren?” she asks one of the passing staff. She dives into a conversation with them about the wedding, her words clawing at the air, reaching out for me.

“God knows who she’s enlisted now,” I mutter under my breath.

“Have fun,” Damian’s laughter needles at my back. The desire to turn around and wipe that smug look off his face is almost overwhelming–but I know better. I dart away, leaving him

behind.

I race towards the staircase, each step taking me further from the dreaded wedding plans. My mother’s voice swells, tugging at the edges of my sanity. “…and the linens, they simply must match the drapery!”

Panic, sharp and acrid, fills my throat. She’s getting closer, probably armed with fabric samples and more scratch and sniff floral catalogs, where she got those overnight is beyond me. I bolt for the stairs, skipping two at a time, praying for a few moments of peace. The cool relief of escape washes over me briefly–until Damian’s traitorous timbre reaches my ears

once more.

“I just saw him head upstairs, Mother. He told me to tell you he was getting some more catalogs, he has an idea for the reception.” His words drip with feigned innocence. I’m going

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strangle the life from him and hang him by his

with sheets and towels–a linen closet. No time to curse my luck; another door, just a few desperate strides away, opens to reveal mops and buckets, the tang

stairwell, a steady march toward me. I can’t let her find me, not now when every fiber of my being screams to keep running. There’s only one place left which is also the most obvious, the last place in this game of hide and seek, my room.

and press my back to

just keep walking…” I whisper to the empty air, to the walls, to any deity that

slices through the silence. “I think I saw him head

He might as well be

heels is like a countdown to my doom, each step another tick on the clock of my waning sanity. I’m one scratch and sniff away from losing my sense of smell. With panic nipping at my heels,

I think when I hear the shower running, mom won’t walk in on her showering, but I bloody

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door, heart thundering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape the cage of my chest. The shower tiles are slick beneath my feet as

I blurt like an

octave before my hand lands over her mouth, silencing her mid–scream. I shut the shower door, ignoring the way the water lashes at my clothes, plastering them

of water

pelt my already drenched shirt. The tension coils in my chest, a spring wound too tight, ready to snap. “If she asks, I am not here!” I hiss at Bree, my voice barely