Hunted without you book.., p.1
Hunted (Without You Book 1), page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Hunted
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Playlist
Acknowledgments
Hunted
Copyright © 2021 by C. A Mariah
Cover Design & Interior Formatting: TRC Designs
Editing Services: Nice Girl Naughty Edits
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of actual persons, living or dead, events, or location is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission of copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
For more information, address: authormariah21@gmail.com
DEDICATION
To the ones who have the courage to look their demons in the eye and remain standing.
You won.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book contains material that may not be suitable for all readers as it contains dark themes that may be triggering to some. Those triggers include, but are not limited to situations of abuse of various kinds, as well as sexual assault.
Please remember that Hunted is a dark romance with heavy themes, so go into this with your eyes wide open. The situations portrayed in this story are not to be taken lightly
PROLOGUE
AMIRA
Friday
July 17, 2020
I run upstairs, my arms and hands full of folded laundry.
My bare feet slap against the hardwood floor as I rush to pick up the mess leftover in my father’s room before he gets home.
I was too preoccupied earlier with cleaning the other rooms in the house, removing the stray pieces of clothing and muddy shoe stains dirtying the throw rugs, that I completely forgot I was supposed to clean his room as well.
He’ll kill me if he comes home to this.
Stray socks and shirts fall from my grasp as I attempt to open his bedroom door with only a couple of fingers.
Finally, able to turn the knob completely, I step into the room, wincing in pain when something sharp sticks to the underside of my foot.
Hobbling over to the bed, I set the clothes down softly, so they don’t unfold as I lean against the mattress to see what’s stabbing me. Blood blisters in the middle of my foot as I pull out a stray shard of glass. I hold the shattered piece up to my eyes, mesmerized by the design of my blood on its surface.
Broken pieces of the mirror lay scattered all around the floor. A large section of it centered around the dresser by the doorway.
My eyes follow the small path of glass leading to the bed as I replay the sounds of shoes dragging it from the entrance to the middle of the room. My face almost slamming into the broken shards when he let me slip from his grip.
“Stop fucking moving, Amira!”
But I couldn’t stop moving.
Then it’d be too easy.
I hate nights like last night.
Nights where it’s centered around pain instead of pleasure.
Nights where he doesn’t even try to hide the kind of man he is.
Nights where I feel I’m being punished for crimes I didn’t commit.
I fling the bloody fragment somewhere near the closet and walk back out of his room to retrieve the broom from the kitchen, careful of the glass littering the ground. I sweep up the pieces around the door, collecting them into a large pile. The remaining glass is screaming at me to clean it up as quickly as possible.
Placing the broom off to the side, I rush to pick up the clothes from the bed and floor, shoving them in their proper drawers.
I casually walk over to the window, giving me the perfect view of the makeshift driveway.
No one is home yet.
I hurry over to the closet, searching for the black metal lockbox my father keeps hidden on the tallest shelf.
He doesn’t know I look through it at least once a week.
It’s one of the only secrets I’m able to keep from him.
Standing on my tiptoes, I feel around the shelf for the box, straining my fingers to reach further.
After a few more moments of blind searching, my fingers finally catch on the thin metal handle. Yanking the heavy box closer, I lose my balance. I start to tumble backward, the metal box and a thick stack of paper falling on top of me as I land on the floor.
The corner slams into my stomach, instantly spreading cramps along the side of my abdomen. I rub out the pain while reaching for the lockbox, and just as I get it unlocked, the stack of paper that fell down with it catches my attention.
Shuffling closer to the pile, I realize it’s not just a stack of paper but a small, thick bundle of envelopes.
Setting the box aside, for now, I lean over and grab the stack.
They’re labeled to me.
Envelope after envelope.
They are all addressed to me.
Flipping around the envelope right on top, I pull out the piece of paper from the open flap.
Aug 23, 2016
My sweet little butterfly. Let me start off by saying that I love you with my entire soul, and I hope you forgive me one day for leaving you.
Mom
What?
That can’t be.
Mom’s dead. She’s been dead for three years.
At least that’s what dad told me.
ONE
AMIRA
Friday
November 27, 2020
“Amira, move your fucking ass and get down here!”
I hate him.
I apply the final touches to my makeup, making sure every scar, blemish, and bruise are covered completely. No one would ever know what is hidden underneath the multiple layers of foundation caking my face and neck.
I see everything differently now. The rose-colored glasses I purposely placed over my eyes are now gone.
It’s impossible to ignore the horror surrounding my life. Ever since I found mom's letters hidden in the back of dad’s closet, I find it more and more difficult to lose myself inside my mind when the time comes.
My mind is constantly exploring every option as to why mom left. Why dad told me she was dead instead of just… gone.
Everything is so much worse and more confusing than I ever allowed myself to believe.
He’s becoming more and more unhinged by the day.
His paranoia and aggression are becoming more erratic.
His outbursts, more uncontrollable.
It’s time for me to go.
“Amira, what the fuck are you doing?!” Liam.
He’s even worse.
His love of pain and hatred for me grow more by the second.
I don’t know why they choose to do this to me, but enough is enough.
Soon I’ll be gone, and they won’t be able to treat me like their toy anymore.
“Amira! Get your ass down here and make us some breakfast before I go up there and beat your fucking ass.”
Taking a deep breath, I turn under the light to make sure the remaining petechiae dotting around my eye, down to my cheekbone is concealed. I raise my head, taking one last look at my mocha brown hair that’s straightened to perfection at six in the morning and my makeup that looks professionally done as always.
There is no helping the deadened look in my eyes, though.
There is no makeup to cover up the hate and disgust reflecting back at me.
My eyes, the windows to my soul, harbor nothing but revulsion. Beautiful brown marbles the deepest shade of honey, my mother used to say.
But there is nothing beautiful about my eyes or the secrets they hold. They aren’t delicious like chocolate. They’re bleak, black.
Soulless.
It is a fitting look since that’s exactly how I’m supposed to feel when I’m around them.
Dead. Empty.
Little do they know, I’m more than the shell of a person they’ve tried to turn me into.
Barely.
Turning away from the mirror and the stranger reflected in it, I make my way inside my room. The creamy eggshell walls are the perfect balance to the deep cherry oak wood flooring.
My full mattress sits in the middle of the room on top of a distressed wrought iron bed frame, directly across from my bathroom, dressed up with fitted pearl cotton sheets. The thick purple comforter my mom made me when I was eight lies perfectly across the end of the bed.
The room looks clean, put to
You’d never know what went on in this room just by looking at it.
I walk over to the window, looking out at the gloomy, stormy sky. The clouds are heavy, making the forest look more ominous than usual. They hang low, holding the promise of rain, which isn’t surprising as it’s been raining for three days straight.
I attempt to push open the window to air out the room, wanting to wash out the stuffy, musky smell of dust and desperation.
“Come on… come on.” I push until I feel my arms shake, but like always, the window doesn’t budge.
“Damnit!”
I give up on that and back away from the window, giving the looming pine trees and somber sky one last look.
I push up my sleeves and look at my wrist. Red dotted fingerprints are left scattered around my skin, refusing to heal.
The brutality of their love and hate lingering on my body.
Taking off my oversized gray sweatshirt and sweatpants, I start slipping on my lacy blue nightgown, the silky material fitting snuggly against my curvy frame. It doesn’t matter that it’s barely past six in the morning or that it’s currently forty-five degrees outside, making our old wooden house freezing inside.
None of that matters.
Those aren’t the rules.
UGH.
I breathe through the frustration, because soon, they won’t matter.
All I want to do is crawl back inside my sweats, wrap my body in the thick, unshapely material and bury myself under a pile of blankets, hoping never to be seen again by the assholes waiting for me downstairs.
But that isn’t acceptable.
What I want, or need, doesn’t matter anymore.
I don’t matter.
Except for one purpose.
Running my hands up the lacy material, I let my mind wander.
I give myself a moment to imagine that I’m not here.
I let myself believe that this isn’t what my life has turned into.
I let my mind fantasize that, for the tiniest moment, this is all a horrible, twisted nightmare.
That moment doesn’t last long before another shout comes my way, and the reality of my situation comes crashing back.
“Two fucking minutes Amira or I swear to God!”
Shaking off the fantasy, I exit the room and run downstairs, the old wood creaking with each step I take.
I barely reach the bottom step before crashing into my father, who was probably on his way to drag me down by my hair out of my room.
“Where the fuck were you? Your brother and I have been waiting fifteen minutes, and now your slow ass is gonna make us late.”
I fight to keep my eyes downcast, focusing on his worn work boots with sawdust and mud still splattered on the sides of the light brown leather.
I force out a quick ‘sorry’ and attempt to go around him to start making them both breakfast and lunch.
Before I get far, I feel my father’s calloused hand grip my elbow, the rough pads of his fingers dipping into the thin skin of my arm.
“You look absolutely beautiful, Mira baby… just like your momma used to.”
His words are sweet, but his voice grows cold at the mention of momma. Anger bubbles to the surface as he thinks of her.
His grip on my elbow tightens, and tears spring to my eyes as I attempt to pull away.
His penetrating mocha-colored eyes travel the length of my body, the anger slowly rolling back as his gaze roves fervently over each curve.
I know Gabriel Lupo, and my father is anything but sweet.
He’s hungry.
In more ways than one.
“Thank you, daddy,” I mumble quietly and try again to pull my elbow away from his grasp.
He doesn’t let go, though.
Instead, his grip on me begins to tighten even further while his eyes continue to linger on my exposed body.
Take your fucking hand off me! I want to scream.
This isn’t right.
I’m not ready.
I swear to God.
One day.
I’ll kill you.
After a few more torturous seconds, he lets me go, letting his large hand hang loosely at his side.
Blinking back the tears collecting on my lower lash line, I force myself to breathe, making my body relax a little bit.
“Mmm, you’re welcome, baby. Now, go make us food before we're late.” That’s all the dismissal I need before I practically sprint into the kitchen.
His unstable moods are giving me whiplash. I never know what to expect from him anymore.
For a while, I could read him and figure out his disposition just by the way he breathed.
Now?
Now, it’s almost impossible to know what dad I’ll get at any given moment.
I stumble into the kitchen, breathing in the fresh air coming from the open window.
The bright, airy room is a welcoming sight until I look toward the table and see my brother Liam sitting there holding a steaming cup of coffee to his mouth. He watches me with unsettling muddy eyes as he blows hot steam away from the rim of the mug.
Just like dad, his eyes start wandering over my exposed flesh, and for the second time this morning, I wish I was in something less revealing.
A burlap sack would be nice right now.
Anything other than this sheer, lacy, blue nightgown.
“Morning, pet. I hope you had a wonderful night,” he says with a deep chuckle, the dimple in his right cheek making him look much kinder than he is. The look of innocence is a mask for the monster hiding within.
Dick.
He knows damn well what kind of night I had.
I tossed and turned all night in bed, the combination of my nightmares and his endless booming laughter refusing to let me sleep.
Turning around to face my half-brother, I slap on a fake-ass smile.
“It was great. Thanks for asking.” I pictured stabbing you in the face every time I closed my eyes.
Spinning around so my back is to him, I hold my head high and walk to the fridge, hiding my face in the cool slot so he doesn’t see the beginnings of a smile pulling at my lips.
I’m pulling everything I need out of the fridge when dad walks into the room and begins to mumble something to Liam.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, so I continue whisking my eggs until they’re fluffy and yellow while simultaneously adding bacon to the hot pan on the next burner.
I slather butter on both sides of the bread before putting them on the sizzling cast-iron skillet. The hissing of the bread covers the sounds of their mumbling and allows my mind to wander. A dangerous thing when you live in a house like this. It leaves you vulnerable.
Weak.
And wolves take advantage of the weak.
I shake my head slightly, just enough to refocus on what I’m doing, but I can’t seem to stop my thoughts from drifting to my nightmares from last night.
“You like that, don’t you, baby.”
“Mmm... take his cock, baby girl.”
“You know I like it when you cry for me…”
Hot oil from the bacon splashes onto my arm, snapping me out of my thoughts, the filthy feelings bringing me back to the present.
I quickly shake away the soiled sensations left behind and turn off the stove. Everything is cooked to perfection.
Thank God.
Or whoever.
I don’t need them screaming at me about burnt food.
“So, Mira baby, what are your plans for the day?” dad asks as he stands up to get some orange juice from the fridge. His muscular body brushes against my petite frame, eliciting a small gasp from me.
The friction of his clothed body against my skin creates tingles that course through me. Tiny goosebumps dot my arms and chest, the electricity making my nipples poke out through my nightgown.
Dad looks over at me, lazily dragging his eyes down to my chest, smirking when he sees the effect he has on my body.
He may get a response out of me physically; I can’t always control that.
But mentally?
If only he knew the disgust I feel for him, or how badly
I wish I could crawl out of my skin every time he’s somewhere near me.
Just one time, I wish I could look him in the eye and tell him what a repulsive bastard I think he is.
