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“Is this shit always the same?”

Yes, it was always the same. An endless loop.

“Day in and fucking day out?” the guy groused.

His voice was too loud. The guard wasn’t that far away. He could hear. Come back. And…then what? Oh, no, would the new guy get tossed in solitary? Wait, we’re already alone in our cells. We’re already facing death. What’s worse than that?

“I know you hear me, you prick. Talk to me. I’m going crazy in here, I’m⁠—”

Nate rolled from the bed. Bounded toward the bars. He positioned himself as close to the nearby cell as he could get. His hands rose and curled around the bars. “First, lower your damn voice. I’m not in the mood to get my head smacked by a baton.” Been there, done that. “Second, what in the hell did you expect? Did you think death row was gonna be some spa vacation? What did you think it would be like?”

Silence.

He shouldn’t have said anything. He should go back to his cot. Go back to not talking to anyone. Not saying a damn word.

“What did you think it would be like?” A retort that Nate hadn’t expected as the idiot’s voice drifted to him, much lower this time. “I heard the guard’s talking about you. Know what you did. Sorority Seven Killer. You’re a real fucking celebrity, aren’t you?”

Nate’s grip on the bars tightened. His chin jerked up.

“What did you think it would be like?” the guy pushed him. “Guess you really hate that one bitch lived, huh?”

You have no idea.

Chapter Twelve

He was out of control, and Hunter knew it. It wasn’t just adrenaline pouring through his body. It was rage. Fear.

The fucker is killing in this town. We’re barely here at all, and a woman was just slaughtered at the old Murder House.

Like that wasn’t a very clear message.

First, a shot was fired at Shelby in New Orleans. Then she was in Hathaway for like, five minutes, and Tiffany Blake was recording her. Right after that recording, Tiffany was slashed and dumped in the dedication fountain.

Fuck. Clusterfuck. The bastard is brutal.

“Was…was I a trigger?’ Shelby asked. She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of the white robe. The robe was far too big, swallowing her. Dark shadows were once again under her eyes, and her wet hair had been swept back. Her cheekbones looked sharper, her pale lips far too delicate and…

Dammit. “You didn’t do this,” he gritted. He could not have this conversation in a freaking towel. Hunter stalked for his bag. It waited at the foot of the bed on the luggage rack. He hauled open the bag and jerked out a pair of gray sweatpants. He should have taken the damn pants into the bathroom with him, but he hadn’t exactly been thinking clearly.

Still wasn’t.

A dead woman in the fountain. Hair floating around her. Blood-red water. So many slashes on her body.

When he’d seen the slashes on Tiffany, he’d thought of the scars on Shelby’s body. Once, she’d been slashed just like Tiffany. But Shelby had escaped. She had escaped…

“Don’t fucking leave this room,” he gritted as his hand fisted in the fabric of the sweatpants.

She blinked at him. Green eyes that seemed bigger tonight. Deeper.

“Don’t,” he repeated before turning on his heel and marching back into the bathroom. He kicked the door shut behind him, dropped the towel, and yanked up the sweats. He turned but caught his reflection in the mirror.

Glittering eyes. Stubble far too thick on his face. Expression cold and deadly.

His chest was bare, and his scars were clear to see. So many battles. So much blood. For a while, all he’d known had been battles and death. Killing.

This bastard will not get to Shelby. I will wipe him from the face of the earth. She will not be hurt.

A soft knock at the door. “Uh, Hunter?”