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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Chapter 68

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life from him and hang him by his

ahead, I lunge for the handle, yanking it open only to find shelves lined 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 of bleach, and a cleaner’s

fiber of my being screams to keep running. There’s only one place left

my rib cage, and

air, to the walls, to any deity

and betraying, slices through the silence. “I think I saw him head towards

smug tone I know too well. He might as well be handing

of my mother’s 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,

mom won’t walk in on her showering, but I bloody damn will

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it’s trying to escape the cage of my chest. The

blurt like an

my hand lands over her mouth, silencing her mid–scream. I

hiss, barely audible above the drumming of water on the tile.

a spring wound too tight, ready to snap. “If she asks, I am not here!” I hiss at Bree, my voice barely above the