Chapter 3

I ran my gaze over his trembling figure. Somehow his fear piqued my curiosity as I wondered who 'the predator,' was and why he would think I worked for him.

 "I certainly don't know who 'The predator is," I uttered, returning to chopping vegetables.

 He stared at me for a moment longer, and slowly, he set the jug down on the counter. "Those words you said earlier—'Offering help doesn't always need a reason'—that's something the predator and his minions say. Every time."

 I paused briefly to look at him. "I say those words often too, young man. They're just words."

 He exhaled, his shoulders slumping. "Maybe I let my fear get the better of me." He shrugged and raised the chair from the floor. His eyes never left me.

 Even as he sat, he looked troubled. His face was drawn, the frown on his brow deepening as he observed me quietly.

 Half an hour later, the meal was ready. I set the table, placing a plate of meatloaf in front of him, along with a cup of light coffee. The way he devoured the food was as though he hadn't eaten properly all day, maybe longer.

 I wanted to ask him questions like where he came from, why they were after him, what he had done. But I refrained.

 It wasn't my business.

 We ate in silence, the only sounds coming from the clink of cutlery against plates and the occasional creak of the old wooden chairs.

 When I finished, I set my fork down and leaned back to watch him as he finished his meal.

 Although he ate with vigor, the lines of worry etched across his face softened slightly, but his shoulders remained tense, as if he expected someone to burst through the door at any moment.

 I sipped my coffee.

 When he finally set his utensils down, he glanced up and caught me watching him. "Thank you for the meal," he said softly.

 "You're welcome," I replied, standing to collect the plates. "You look like you needed it."

 He hesitated before nodding. "I haven't had a proper meal in days."

 I thought as much.

 As I rinsed the dishes in the sink, I felt his gaze burning on my back. Then, after a moment, he said, "You're not going to ask, are you?"

 I paused, the water still running from the faucet. "Ask what?"

 "Why they're after me. What I've done."

 Drying my hands on a towel, I turned to face him. Did he read my mind? His expression guarded his emotions, but his eyes showed a hint of vulnerability. He seemed a man who was teetering on a thin line of fight or flight.

 "It's not my business," I said simply. "You don't owe me an explanation."

 He blinked. "You might want to know."

 "So you can play the pity card?" I raised a brow. "I don't want to know anything."

 There was silence again.

 He sighed heavily and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "The predator… he's not just a man. He's worse. Ancient. People like me—people who cross him—don't last long."

 "Then why cross him?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

 His lips curled into a bitter smile. "Because I didn't know who I was dealing with. Not until it was too late."

 I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "And now?"

 "Now?" His laughter came in a hollow sound. "Now I'm just trying to stay alive, one day at a time."

 Whatever he was running from, whatever he had done, wasn't my concern, but he seemed terrified of it. I tried to let my apathy towards the conversation show in my expression.

 It seemed to have worked, as he kept quiet and relaxed in the chair.

 I nodded toward the couch in the adjoining room. "Just for the night," I said firmly.

 He nodded slowly, "Thanks."

 As I turned off the kitchen light and headed toward my room, I saw him curl himself up on the long couch.

 The predator, whoever he was, now remained in my thoughts. The name sounded familiar, and it tied knots in my stomach.

In the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and plants, I dug my knees into the wet ground. Rain poured onto my face as I looked up at the sky.

 There was someone in my arms. A boy.

 His face was a blur, but I noticed he had a knife stuck in his abdomen. I held onto it, crying, begging for him to stay alive.

 He tried to form words, but I couldn't understand what he was saying.

 A sharp excruciating pain made me open my eyes.

 It was morning already.

 It was the same dream, again, for eight years now. But I didn't know what it meant. I couldn't even recognize the face of the person I was holding.

 Crows cawed nearby, and sunlight trekked through the curtains into my room. I had freshened up and was descending the stairs when I caught the tail end of the young man's voice from the living room.

 "…Sure. Not a problem." I heard him say.

 He was hunched over the table, with the telephone pressed to his ear and his free hand braced against the edge.

 "Who are you talking to?" I asked.

 He flinched and glanced over his shoulder. Slowly, he pressed the receiver back into its cradle.

"No one important," he muttered and turned to face me.

 I raised a brow.

 "It's just my mom," he admitted with a sigh. "I wanted to let her know I'm fine… for now, at least."

 "You should hit the road. It's already 10:00 a.m."

 "Yeah, I should." He grabbed his jacket from the arm of the couch and slung it over his shoulder. "I'm Marcel, by the way."

 I hesitated. Since this was probably the last time we'll see each other, exchanging names seemed unnecessary. "Josette." I said.

 He nodded, then stepped out through the front door, his departure making the entire place fall silent to my ears.

It'd been four boring days which I had wholly spent indoors. I spent most of the fifth day at the grill downtown. From my table outside the small restaurant, I had a clear view of the meadow, its wildflowers swaying under the breeze. Rolling hills framed the horizon, and the cloudless sky was as blue as sapphire.

 Cars drove by, their drivers slowing to glance my way. Some men whistled, some winked; smirks on their faces. Others ran their hands through their hair, a gesture they may think charming.

 There were the ones who simply stared, their gazes fixed on me and mine on their posh cars, until the vehicles disappeared over the hills.

 I sipped my milkshake, watching it all in silence.

 By the time I stood to leave, the sun was dipping low, and the clock ticked close to seven in the evening.

 After a long drive home, I pulled into the garage. Stepping out, I approached the front door, fumbling for my keys.

 As I reached for the lock, I realized it was already open.

 I frowned.

 Had I forgotten to lock it?

 Pushing the door open cautiously, I stepped inside. There was a faint clatter of metals coming from the kitchen.

 I flipped on the lights.

 The sound faltered. My heart raced with each step I took toward the kitchen.

 Before I could reach the doorway, a rough hand clamped over my mouth, the grip so tight it pinched my nose, cutting off my air. The second arm, hairy and muscled, pressed across my chest, pinning me to his broad frame.

 I struggled, but it was feeble against his strength.

 From the corners of my eyes, I saw two figures emerged from either side of the room, hulking and broad-shouldered.

 Their size was almost monstrous in the dim light. Each, at most, was seven feet tall,

 I stomped down with all my weight, my boot's hard sole crushing his toes.

 He yelped, his grip loosening just enough for me to squeeze out. I seized the moment, twisting free of his hold and sprinting toward the kitchen.

 Slamming the door shut, I wedged my body against it, my breaths coming in gasps.

From behind the counter, Marcel revealed himself, his face ghostly pale.

 "Marcel?" I hissed. The fear running through me probably didn't let the shock show on my features.

 I was more concerned about surviving the night.

 "Help me block the door!" I yelled.

 He rushed over and pressed his back against the door. The force of the push from the other side rattled the door, making the hinges creak.

 "They must've followed me." He panted.

 My gaze scanned the room in a second and landed on the window. I nodded towards it, "Go!" I shouted. "I'll try to hold them off."

 "What about you?"

 "I'll handle it. Just go!"

 He hesitated, quivering and fidgeting. But as the door splintered under the pressure, he bolted, leaping out of the window into the dark.

 The door gave way moments later, crashing inward. Three men stormed in, all wearing black leather, weapons in their hands. Two carried rifles slung over their shoulders, while the other gripped a club and a pair of daggers were stuck in the sheath on both sides of his waist.

 "Where is he?" one of them barked.

 "Who?" My voice shook as I backed toward the counter.

 "Don't play dumb with us!" The man with the club slammed it against the floor. "Unless you want to feel what this can do."

 He raised it so I can see.

 I swallowed hard. Their eyes were cold and deadly, and the air around them was suffocating.

 As they moved closer, my hand brushed against the handle of the pan I'd left on the counter. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

 I tightened my grip on it as the man with the scar stalked towards me, his lips curling into a smirk.

 "Last chance," he growled. "Where is he?"

 My heart thundered in my chest.

A scar sliced across his face, made my blood run cold.