Hunt Me! I Crave the Chase (Spooky Boys #3)

To call me.

Something.

Something to indicate he wasn’t dead.

Lydia had been no help. She probably thought it was funny how concerned I was. And now that I knew she’d been trying to take his life that entire time—I understood that she would’ve been happy had he ended up dead after all.

She liked leaving me to squirm.

It made it easier to control me.

I wasn’t sure what she’d expected to happen. If she’d succeeded in killing him, did she really think she’d come home and all would be well? That I wouldn’t put a bullet right in her head, and be done with her forever?

Because I would have. She’d have been dead instead of in prison.

I may not have been a born killer, but she’d made me into one. Despite my usual squeamish nature, I would’ve killed her. I wouldn’t have hesitated.

And I wouldn’t have felt guilty.

Because she would have deserved it.

My phone rang, and I gasped out a horrified sound as I pulled my fingers from my ass and fumbled the damn thing on. “Hello?”

Fuck, this is so fucking embarrassing.

Why did I answer it?

“Hi, Jeffrey.” Richard’s voice was low and gentle like it always was. Not that I knew him all that well—at least not as an adult. Sure, I’d seen him in passing since I moved back, usually when he was with Blair, but I’d so far successfully avoided any and all alone time with him.

I just…

I guess I didn’t know what to say.

We’d been close once—but that felt like a lifetime ago. And now he was a vampire. Which was so freaking weird.

“Sup?” I replied, trying to keep my tone casual like the dildo I’d bought wasn’t staring at me from the nightstand. Like my fingers weren’t sticky. Like my ass wasn’t twitching and empty, hungry for werewolf cock.

“I sent you the address for the furniture place,” Richard said. “It’ll take an hour and twenty five minutes to drive there.”

“Cool.”

“I also sent you the order confirmation number.”

“Dope.”

“It’s under Blair Evans, but I told them to expect you, so feel free to use either your name or his.” My heart thumped unsteadily. What name did he put for me? It was such a dumb question, but it meant kinda…a lot to me.

“Right,” I said, hands shaking a little.

Did he put Markus or Jeffrey?

Markus Prince?

Jeffrey Evans?

Jeffrey Prince?

Every name meant something different. Markus was the boy who’d died, the naive fool—the one everyone missed but me. Jeffrey Evans was a puppet—even less real than Markus was. And Jeffrey Prince…he was a messed up, twisted fuck-up who didn’t know who he was anymore.