Prey for Me

Book 2: Feral Love

by Allie Oleander

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

A thrilling and sexy wager between friends turns deadly when they discover they aren’t the only ones who are preying.…

No deity has ever compelled Caine Underwood to drop to his knees in worship like Margot Walker does. Ever since the Halloween when she played Red Riding Hood to his Big Bad Wolf, he’s been chasing her attention—and betting that he can build a haunt so terrifying she won’t make it through. Now, Margot’s single and Caine’s pulling out all the stops to win their annual wager, and he wants her for his prize.

Margot understands fear. Six years ago, she unveiled her televangelist ex-husband’s sins, and the situation turned bloody. Now, being hunted and devoured by Caine isn’t terrifying, it’s arousing...but the haunted house director isn’t the only one trying to scare her.

Taunting threats commanding her to confess, repent, and atone for her sins start arriving, and when Caine discovers a zealot from Margot’s past is stalking her every move, his anger is lethal.

There’s only one man allowed to haunt Margot...

Him.

Release date: September 22, 2026

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 416

Sample

One

Margot

"You might as well be in a horror movie," Lauren grumbles, breathless but impressively coherent considering we're jogging. "House in the woods; woman by herself. Fun and games until you look out the window and there's some creeper in a mask looking back at you."

"I could fix him." I pant, my words choppy. "Or make him worse. Either way."

"Standards, Margot." She huffs a laugh. "Sprint to the trailhead?" The question is pure formality. Lauren's already accelerating, forcing me to lengthen my stride to keep pace.

My legs scream Hell no, but my traitorous head nods. Then we're flat-out running. The sound of my footfalls is overshadowed by the frantic thump-thump-thump of my heartbeat in my ears. Lauren pulls ahead, her strawberry blond ponytail swishing cheerfully. How gently it bobs with her gait seems at odds with how hard I'm working: arms pumping like I can get an A for exertion, every stride taking more energy than the last. Sweat stings my eyes, but wiping it away risks throwing off my momentum. My body rebels as my brain screams, Faster, you can go faster. Inhaling burns, my lungs protesting that, No, we cannot.

Trees move through my peripheral vision far slower than feels appropriate for this misery, but passing the trail marker indicating we're almost done gives me hope. I forget that my left sneaker is laced slightly looser than the right, and that the waistband of my leggings is a smidge too tight to be comfortable. Ahead of me, Lauren blurs with the scenery. There's only the knowledge that the end is near, and the cranky metronome of my inner voice.

This.

Sucks.

This.

Sucks.

The mantra in my head keeps time with my stride all the way to the trailhead, culminating with a triumphant sucks when I stagger to a walk. I yank down my armband and tap my phone to log the run, taking care not to accidentally delete it. Every single miserable minute must count. Lauren turns to me as I finish, beaming like we didn't just experience a collective horror. Cheeks flushed, a thin sheen of sweat on her face, she somehow manages to look glowy and vibrant. She's a health and wellness content creator. It's fitting she looks as if she belongs in an advertisement for the turquoise sports bra she's wearing. The glimpse of my face I catch reflected in my phone is giving less Is she an athleisure model? and more Did that squirrel fall into a birdbath?

I smile back, or maybe grimace. With a beep and a burst of digital confetti on the screen, the app lets me know I beat last week's time. Any pleasure at that win is chased away by a pop-up saying, Imagine the progress you'd make if you ran more often! that follows.

"Do you feel like the messaging is passive-aggressive?" I ask, holding up my phone. Lauren introduced me to this fitness tracker, swearing it was more accurate than the one that came with my phone.

She laughs. Pulling the elastic from her ponytail, she regathers her hair into a messy bun. "I think they're going for encouraging."

I'm one more backhanded compliment away from being encouraged into deleting the whole darn app, but that seems rude to say. Lauren was excited to add me to her list of friends and show me all its various features.

"Maybe it's me." I side-eye the phone, trying to determine if I'm projecting my own issues onto the technology. If the voice in my head that constantly says I should be better than I currently am is making me hypersensitive.

Nah, the app's a dick.

I push sweaty hair out of my face as we start back down the trail we just ran up. Post-run, Lauren likes to walk a mile to cool down, so we'll walk back into the woods a half mile then turn around and walk back out. While she's apparently a regular patron of this park and trail system, I didn't know it existed until she invited me on a run with her a few weeks ago. It's a tad embarrassing that she's been in Maine a month and has explored more than I have in the last five and a half years.

"Seriously, though." Lauren returns to our pre-sprint discussion as we walk. "It's creepy. You should crash in my spare room. I swear I'm a great roommate."

I drop back to let a runner pass us before moving alongside her again. "I appreciate it, I do. But I need to stop by to get the mail and water the plants anyway, so I might as well stay-saves the drive." I've only known Lauren a few weeks, so while I appreciate her offer, the thought of sharing her living space sounds awkward. Despite having worked for Shane Underwood as a personal assistant since I moved to Maine, and being best friends with his wife, Claire, I feel uncomfortable invading their space-and they aren't even in it. They say I'm "house-sitting" for them while they hike the Appalachian Trail, but we all know I'm the one benefiting from this rent-free dwelling arrangement.

"At least text me the address in case there's an emergency," Lauren presses.

Her concern makes my skin feel overly snug. My fingers itch to tug my tank top away from my body even though it's loose-fitting.

"I'm fine," I insist as we reach the half-mile marker and make a U-turn. "Besides, I'm only alone another month. Caine-that's Shane's brother-gets here in September." My stomach flip-flops deliciously at the thought. Like every aspect of my life, my feelings for Caine are complicated. But now that I'm no longer "engaged," I'm curious to see if I still find Caine irritatingly appealing. Also curious about what will happen if I do.

"Please tell me you're joking," she mutters.

Snapping back to the conversation, I try to figure out what I'm supposed to be joking about. We're in the early stage of acquaintanceship, and I haven't nailed down her sense of humor yet.

"Caine and Shane," she blurts when I don't catch her hint. "That's awful."

"Their mom loved rhymes. It's cute." I feel like a cat whose fur was rubbed the wrong way; it's taking all my self-control not to come out claws first. Personally, I don't have particularly strong feelings about the rhyming one way or another, but it's the principle. I mock Caine all the time, but it's to his face, and for things he can control, like his pun affinity. Lauren doesn't get to make fun of his-or Shane's-name.

"Yeah, for puppies." Swinging her arms, she pulls one across her body in a stretch.

"Don't be a jerk about their names." It comes out snappier than I mean it to, crossing the line from assertive to aggressive. Shit.

"All right, all right, chill." She gives me a sidelong look, confirming any doubts I had that I overdid my boundary-setting. "Your friends' Dr. Seuss names are off-limits. Got it."

Whoops.

I made it weird.

Lauren and I have hung out several times since we met at a spin class, but I still don't know how I feel about her. As an introvert, most of my friendships occur when someone more extroverted pulls me into their fold. Sometimes, like with Claire, it works out great. Other times, I realize the friendship isn't a fit and have to figure out how to extricate myself from the relationship without hurting the other person's feelings. I'm starting to get a sinking suspicion that Lauren may be one of those friendships I need to squirm out of, but I'm trying to convince myself it's still too early to be sure.

Our conversation moves on to other things. By the time we part ways at the parking lot, I feel as if I've smoothed out whatever rift I created.

• • •


Despite Lauren’s worries, turning down the long gravel drive at the Underwoods’ feels more Hallmark movie than horror. It’s a breezy August afternoon, the kind of weather that makes me decide I’ll be finishing my workday from the front porch. As I park in front of the house, it’s impossible to see it as anything but what it is: a well-maintained Queen Anne Victorian.

Claire and Shane have been married three years, and I've worked for Shane since before they met. I've spent a lot of time here, in both a professional and personal capacity. The front door opens with a familiar groan. A friendly greeting from a home that was here long before I was born and will likely remain long after I'm gone.

Gremlin meets me at the guest bedroom door, proudly carrying the de-fluffed carcass of a stuffed cow. The Yorkie mix is proof that I should only be allowed to volunteer at Pawsitively Perfect Pet Rescue in administrative roles. By the end of my first day cleaning the kennels, I'd decided Gremlin was going home with me. She'd been trembling, pressing herself as far into the corner as possible. I was certain such a sensitive dog was far too fragile for that kind of noise and activity. Ha. I was conned. There isn't a timid bone in her tiny body.

She follows me into the bathroom, settling on the rug with her trophy. I flip the shower to high and strip. Going through my routine on autopilot, I make a mental list of the rest of the tasks on my list for today. In addition to being Shane's personal assistant, I keep a decent roster of freelance clients. Most of my work involves managing social media accounts and writing copy for newsletters and websites, but I do other administrative tasks when needed.

My phone vibrates on the bathroom counter as I towel off and slip into my bathrobe. Expecting it to be a client, or maybe Lauren wanting to switch spin classes, I pick it up.

Three words. That's how many it takes to make my heart stop. The text from an unknown number taunts me: Guess who's back?

Nicholas.

Maine feels closer to Texas than it did five minutes ago. Last week I did my monthly Google deep dive on my ex-husband, Nicholas Ammon, and learned he'd started a ministry program at the same prison he was released from six months ago. Seeing he was also back on his "inspirational" bullshit on social media-complete with a handle referencing forgiveness-was unsurprising, but still unnerving. That I ever introduced him to the concept of being a pastor influencer is one of many mistakes I tow around in my regret wagon. I'd been young, in love, and convinced the messages Nicholas preached would change lives for the better-even if it seemed a bit much to me at times.

Goose bumps spring to life on my legs-damnit, I just shaved them-though the bathroom is still steamy from my shower.

Don't default to the worst-case scenario.

What's most likely?

The text could be a prank. A wrong number. A prank for a wrong number. That's the most logical answer. Dread churns in my stomach regardless, because what if? Decades from now, my nervous system will still be spitting and hissing like a feral cat at the possibility of Nicholas. He's the horror villain who won't stay dead, ready to reanimate the moment I let my guard down.

I respond, hands trembling. Shaky-thumbed or not, the hatred I have for him is rock solid. The me who fled to Maine was terrified of what Nicholas was capable of. And what you were capable of, the little voice in my head chimes in. Don't forget that.

Not going there.

Me: Who is this?

Time becomes a clock with a dying battery, the second hand twitching but never traveling. I wait. And wait.

The local area code is the only reason I don't block the number without responding. If Nicholas is in the same state as me, I need to know. Finally, my phone chimes again, the tone too cheerful for the moment.

Unknown number: Caine. This is my new number.

Unknown number: Guess the picture didn't go through, lol.

Every ounce of rage leaks out of my body, leaving room for butterflies, or maybe bats, to swoop and soar.

Caine.

Tattoo artist, haunted-house designer, and the sexy, intimidating kind of handsome that would fluster me senseless if he weren't nonsense personified. We're friends, and during the months the haunt is open, sort of coworkers.

Also had a teensy, tiny hookup that I pretend didn't rewire every single circuit in my brain.

My phone rings: the unknown number.

Shit.

Inhaling deep, I try to recalibrate. I need a plan. I want to casually drop the fact that I'm single, see what kind of reaction Caine has. See if he cares. See if he would be up for a repeat encounter so I can figure out if the sex is actually that good, or if I was just riding the high of being fresh out of a miserable marriage when we hooked up five years ago.

The phone rings again.

Deep breath.

Caine's rich, throaty voice fills my ears, doing nothing to calm my goose bumps.

"What's new, killer?"

Easy, breezy, casual.

"Jeremy and I broke up." I blurt the sentence with urgency appropriate for letting someone know their hair is on fire.

Damnit.

Caine takes my announcement in stride, a hint of surprise in his voice. "Oh, really? You doing okay?"

I try to behave like an easygoing person. "Yeah, thanks. I've been staying at Claire and Shane's. They're calling it house-sitting to protect my pride." Setting the phone to speaker and placing it on the counter, I decide to finish the rest of my skin-care routine.

"I didn't know you were out there. I'm in Newbound."

"Why are you in town?" I examine the breakout along my jawline. Could be hormonal. Could also be the fact that my skin is offended by every substance known to humankind. "And what was with the cryptic text?"

"I'm buying the Abattoir. On my way to meet with the-"

I scream, an ear-piercing screech that makes Gremlin yip with glee. My smile may take over my face. Spinning to lean against the sink, I lower my voice to a less earsplitting volume. "How did you not lead with this news?! This is amazing. Congratulations!"

"Thank you." He chuckles, trying to play it off like it's no big deal. I won't let him; it's huge.

Two years ago Caine started bouncing the idea that the Abattoir-the haunted house he's managed for as long as I've known him-would be the perfect setup for escape rooms, making it more profitable because it could stay open year-round. Last fall, he mentioned that he was looking into business loans and seeing what it would take to buy the haunt from Ronnie, its owner, who was completely hands-off in its running.