Hunting Her Box Set

2

Anissa

You run like a gazelle. I should know—I’m someone who loves to hunt.

I sprint out the last of my five-mile run. It isn’t difficult. Spurring my legs to move faster despite the fatigue is easy when I’m being followed.

I’ve known for almost two weeks. Since before the flowers started to arrive with their taunting notes.

Being aware of my tail before they deliberately a

I’ve never seen them. It’s the raised hair on the back of my neck making their presence known. Pure instinct.

I’d anticipated the retaliation after my outburst at the funeral. I hadn’t been able to bite my tongue. For once, I lacked my usual restraint because victory had been too invigorating not to bask in its glory.

One failed investigation after another had led to Luther’s arrest. Finally, we’d taken him into custody, and I’d struggled to curb my need to gloat.

It then proved impossible when his son, the formidable Cole Torian, had tried to talk his way out of the situation using intimidation and threats. That dark, soulless gaze had been fixed on me. Co

I’d stared the devil in the eye, and without any subtlety, I kinda told him to go fuck himself, adding a provoking wink for good measure.

Euphoria had shot through me, the thrill entirely worth the death sentence his expression had promised. At least, that was what I’d thought at the time.

Now, I’m not so sure.

Your body is a masterpiece, but your screams will be my symphony.

The deliveries keep coming. Every day for the last five days. Roses, lilies, carnations, irises. Yesterday, tulips.

After the first bouquet, I didn’t accept another offering. I refused the blooms and only took the cards. Those tiny envelopes, with their delightful messages from my secret admirer, are all the evidence I need.

I just have to find a way to tie them to a source.

Problem is, I’m not entirely sure who the sender is. The florist won’t help without a warrant, and the list of potential candidates is mighty long. Even narrowing my search to the latest investigation leaves me with more options than I’d like—Luther, Cole, and Decker. I’ve also made threats toward Hunter and Sarah, so those two can’t be ignored.

Any one of them would want revenge. It’s merely a case of who’s willing to claim it.

The advantage is in their court, especially when I haven’t mentioned the constant tail to my supervisor.

I can’t.

I kept the heated exchange with Cole from my report, too.

My presence in this department has been a point of contention since my father left his badge behind to join the dark side. Without a word, he disappeared, removing every pe

Now he’s dead to me. As far as I’m concerned, I lost both parents the night my mother died, but the taint of his actions still linger.

Nobody here trusts me. Well, I don’t trust that they trust me. Not really. They don’t have my back, and I don’t fucking care. I’ve always worked on my own anyway.

It’s their judgment that kills me. They think I’m a traitor, too. They expect that I’m a hair-trigger away from packing my bags and switching to a life of crime.

It didn’t fucking help when my only informant inside the Torian organization chose to take the same path as my father. Apparently, I’m a magnet for turncoats.

Or, if I listen to the taunting whispers inside the bureau, I’m a recruiter for the other side.

A fucking leper.

So keeping my slip-up from the funeral to myself is important. And I refuse to let anyone think I’m weak and in need of surveillance. I can handle these threats on my own.

Do you dream of me? Because I dream about what I’m going to do to you.

My anger leaves no room for fear.

Instead, I work harder, sprinting faster, pushing myself further until I reach the café doors in a panting, sweating mess.

I suck gulps of air into my lungs as I wipe the dampness from my face and succumb to the uncomfortable shiver at the back of my neck.

I glance over my shoulder and scan the sidewalk.

They’re here. Somewhere. They, he or her.

It doesn’t matter that I can’t see the culprit. There’s only a street filled with parked cars and what appears to be i

The mornings and evenings are the worst. I don’t know why. I don’t think I want to know. It’s bad enough that my entire body gets blanketed in goose bumps whenever I leave my apartment to exercise, and then again when I return home from work.

Their presence shadows the start and end of every day.

But it can’t last forever. Whoever it is will grow tired before I become scared.

Not long now, little fox. Not long at all.

I push open the café door and walk inside, determined to put their existence to the back of my mind.

Today is about celebration. Luther Torian is making a court appearance, and I get to witness the magnificence. Nothing can drag me down from the heightened anticipation of seeing him in cuffs. His suffering will make my hardships worthwhile.

The barista meets my gaze as I approach, her subtle nod a confirmation of my order. She’s run off her feet. Like always. The line of customers are banked up like a traffic jam.

There’s a reason I come here to join the weary queue, and it has nothing to do with the convenience of the café being directly across the street from my apartment and everything to do with the strong coffee and creamy aftertaste.

“The usual?” the cashier asks over the hiss of steam from the machine making the heavenly liquid.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I shove a hand into the gauze pocket in the side of my leggings, my fingers grazing the crinkled bills as a skitter of awareness shoots up my spine.

A figure moves to stand close. The large frame right by my side.

“Allow me,” a man offers.

I freeze, watching as a hand reaches out, offering payment, the material of a tailored suit jacket entering my peripheral vision.

I know the voice. I’ve heard it ring in my ears. Whisper into my dreams. Murmur through my nightmares.

It’s the friendly tone that’s unfamiliar. The deep, smooth words drift over my skin, making the hairs on the back of my neck dance.

“No. Thanks.” I scoot my money along the counter. “I’ve got this.”

I don’t look at him. I won’t risk letting him hear my thoughts.

“I insist.” He inches his fingers farther, creating a race toward the cashier that I’m loath to participate in.

“Again, thanks,” I grate, “but the Bureau frowns upon agents accepting gifts from criminals.” I speak loud enough for my accusation to be heard by the line of people waiting for their morning solace.

It’s another taunt. A mistake. One I’m too pathetic to resist.

I glare at the cashier, silently demanding she take my money while I wait for Cole Torian to retaliate.

Instead, he chuckles, the thickly rich sound sinking into me along with the woodsy scent of his expensive cologne. “I’ve got a clean record, Niss. So there’s no need to fear.”

He lets the sentence linger. The last word hovers in the air between us like a threat before he gently nudges in front of me and places his cash directly in the hand of the slack-jawed woman I seriously want to slap.