Prey on the Hunter.

Chapter 3. Mafia Bride.

Raquel's POV

I should’ve felt beautiful.

That was the entire point, wasn’t it?

My dress alone looked like a dream.

Although the dress was heavy, the embroidered bodice clung to my ribs like a second skin, the material tight enough to squeeze the breath out of me while the lace clung perfectly to my waist.

The silk flowed like liquid mercury every time I moved, the skirt swishing and swaying with each step. Even my veil caught the light, the material so light it barely made a whisper.

Everyone said I made a gorgeous bride.

But all I could think about was blood.

No matter how many times I blinked at my reflection, my mind dragged me back to the cabin, to the weight of that rock in my hand, the sickening wet sound it made, the crumpled body in the dark.

I had washed my hands, scrubbed them raw, but I could still feel it under my nails. The memory curled in the back of my mind like a watching snake, coiled and waiting.

Still, I smiled. Laughed and said “thank you” when someone complimented my dress. Blushed appropriately when my bridal party made their supposed to be sudden innuendos. And giggled bashfully when anyone mentioned my fiance's name.

I even kissed my future mother-in-law on the cheek, graciously ignoring her half sneer and said I was honored to be part of their pompous family.

Fake it till you make it, right?

The ceremony prep went off without a hitch. The photoshoot was flawless, immaculate even.

Our billboard was up in every major city. Raquel and Darren: The Couple of the year. I couldn’t look at it without gagging a little. We looked so in love, with me positioned coyly in my future husband's arms, his thick fingers wrapped around my waist and his eyes staring adoringly into my own.

I was smiling in every photo, not big enough to cause any unsightly wrinkles but not small enough to make me look like a lifeless ottoman.

It was perfect, see. so very perfect.

Darren's family did have a weird obsession with perfection

Take for instance now as I tried to patiently sit through what felt like the hundredth touch up on my face and hair.

Around me, people bustled all past—makeup artists, assistants, photographers speaking in rushed French.

Everyone moved like they were in a heist movie and the prize was my hairline while I just sat there, like a doll, waiting for the next touch-up. The next adjustment.

It was mind numbing to me. I tried my hardest to comfort myself that I was marrying a perfect businessman with a cute smile and an obscenely rich family that didn't dabble in anything shady. If only it wasn't for the sake of my father's political career, but hey, at least I'd get a slice of the cake as well.

Yay.

But it didn't still help with my growing frustration.

“Ugh.." I whispered to myself, rolling my eyes when one of the stylist's complained about my hair again, for goodness sake, it was already good enough. What exactly did they want to turn me into?

I couldn't take this anymore.

“Pardon me, I'd like to catch a quick break,” I said to them and without hesitation made a run to the dressing room during a break in the shoot. My head throbbed from all the flashes. I needed silence and a place that didn’t smell like setting spray.

I pushed open the door, dropped onto the loveseat, and allowed myself to breathe, tired from all the chaos today had brought.

Then warm hands covered my eyes, not rough. Not painful. Just… sudden.

“Guess who,” came a voice in my ear a second later.

It sounded oddly joyful, the Darren I know wouldn't be so happy about a political wedding. Deep down in me, I felt and hoped that he had suddenly had a change of heart, maybe lightening the mood was his way of showing it. “You’re not supposed to see me yet, you sneak Darren,” I said giggling.

But the hands didn’t move and the voice didn’t laugh. Instead, it whispered into my ear, hot breath tickling, almost disappointed, “Wrong.”

The temperature in the room plummeted. That voice was far too real to be mistaken.

My body stiffened with fear, my breath caught in my throat, at that moment, the first thought on my mind was covered with “what if's”, not until the scent hit me next— sweetly smelling cologne. Blood. Metal. Rain-soaked leather.

He let go of my eyes slowly.

I turned and felt my soul leave my body. There he was.

The killer. The same maddeningly handsome face, all angles and shadowed smiles. Only now, he was wearing Darren’s tuxedo.

Too tight around the shoulders, splattered in blood, sleeves torn.

His knuckles were bruised, one side of his face still faintly swollen with a bandage; that injury from me.

"I missed you.” he crooned affectionately.

His grin was boyish. Sweet. Like we were at a picnic instead of a horror show.

Suddenly, he frowned, head tilting as he apprised me.

“We should always be together," he sounded like a pouty teenager. "Being alone wasn't very nice."

"Wh-what—" I managed to stutter, my eyes darting around the room wildly until I caught sight of something that took my ability to talk away.

I couldn't breathe, because right next to him, slumped against the dresser like a broken puppet, was Darren.

He was so pale.

A broken wine bottle lay beside his temple, blood matting his blond hair. His limbs twitched faintly before stiling.

I lurched forward, trying to get to him but the man stepped in front of me, beaming like nothing was wrong.

“Don’t worry I didn't kill him,” he said, c*****g his head. “I mean, it was just a little argument wasn't it, there was no need to get remarried,” he sniffed, sparing Darren's body a haughty glance, "believe me I would do anything for you, and that includes taking care of annoying pests trying to stand in the way of our love.”

Remarried?!

What was he talking about, this was my first wedding, I wasn't getting remarried and definitely not to him.