“This is just delaying the inevitable, Elliot. I’ll find you. And when I do, we’ll finish what we started.”
The promise—or threat—sends a chill down my spine that’s equal parts terror and desire.
I burst through the door and sprint down the corridor, barefoot and half-dressed, not caring who sees me. My body still throbs with unfulfilled need, but I push it away and run harder.
Each pounding footstep puts distance between Julian and me, between the man and me in the mirror I barely recognized. The man who wanted—no, needed—everything Julian offered.
I run from the truth reflected in those mirrors. From the desires I’ve spent a lifetime denying. From everything I want but cannot allow myself to have.
10
JULIAN
Elliot flees like a startled deer, feet bare against the polished floor. The sight should amuse me—another man’s panic is usually entertaining—but something twists in my chest instead.
Gentle coaxing isn’t going to work with him. That much is clear.
I take my time getting dressed, considering my next move. Elliot Chambers is a man who’s built his entire identity around denial. Decades of repression telling him he’s wrong, perverted, broken. You don’t dismantle that kind of conditioning with a few kind words and a prostate massager.
No, what Elliot needs is to have the choice taken away from him.
His body knows what it wants—that much was obvious from how desperately he responded to my touch, how quickly he hardened in my mouth, how his muscles clenched around that toy. But his mind is still fighting, still clinging to the lie he’s been telling himself his entire life.
I smile at my reflection. Dubious consent has always been a particular favorite of mine. There’s something exquisite aboutpushing someone past their boundaries, watching resistance crumble into surrender.
I’ll need to corner him somewhere he can’t escape. Pin him down. Most likely restrain him. Force pleasure on him until he breaks through that wall of shame. Make it impossible for him to deny what his body is screaming for.
“You can run, Elliot,” I murmur to my reflection, “but you won’t get far.”
I’ve spent my life enjoying understanding the intricate psychology of desire and resistance. Elliot is a classic case of repression—the harder he fights his true nature, the more violently it will eventually emerge. All he needs is someone to shatter those chains for him, to force him past that final barrier.
I pull on my pants and mask before exiting the mirrored chamber, scanning the dimly lit corridor for any sign of Elliot. The hallway stretches empty in both directions—no sound of retreating footsteps, nothing to indicate which way he fled.
I glance at my watch, tapping the screen to bring up the tracking interface. The six female prey appear as glowing dots. No dot for any of the hunters, it's a part of the game that, at this moment, I curse beneath my breath, then chuckle to myself. “Clever system,” I murmur. “The game wasn’t designed for hunters to become prey.”
Of course. Since the watches only track the designated prey—the women who signed up to be hunted tonight, I’ll get no help there. Just as well, the way he runs for me is intoxicating.
This changes the dynamic. I can’t simply follow a blinking dot to where Elliot is hiding. I’ll need to think like him, anticipate where a man amid a sexual identity crisis might run to ground. The maze is vast—three floors of maze corridors, themed rooms, and secluded alcoves. He could be anywhere.
I stand perfectly still, considering my options. Elliot wouldn’t go to the main floor—too many witnesses.
“Hide and seek it is,” I say to the empty hallway.
The challenge is appealing. There’s something primal about hunting without technological aids, relying purely on instinct and knowledge of one’s prey. Most hunters tonight are simply following their watches to claim their prize. But this—this requires skill. Patience.
I begin walking, my footsteps silent. My senses heighten as I scan each doorway, each shadow, listening for the sound of panicked breathing or the rustle of movement.
The maze shifts around me, corridors branching in multiple directions. I pause at each intersection, weighing my options. If I were a man fleeing his own desires, where would I go? Not up to the main floor, where others might see his disheveled state. Perhaps down to the lower levels.
A muffled groan cuts through the silence, drawing my attention to a partially open door to my right. I slow my approach, stepping carefully to remain undetected.
The muffled sounds grow clearer as I approach. I recognize Vane’s growl before I see him—that distinctive rumble. I pause at the threshold, curiosity overriding my hunt for Elliot.
Through the crack, I glimpse them on a leather chaise. Lia Morgan—one of tonight’s designated prey—is straddling Vane, her head thrown back. But this is no standard Hunt capture. Her wrists aren’t bound; she’s in control of her movements, grinding against him with deliberate, confident strokes.
What catches my attention is the gleam of red. Vane holds a small blade, drawing it delicately across her collarbone. The thin line wells with blood—a shocking crimson against her olive skin. Instead of flinching, Lia arches into the cut, a throaty moan escaping her lips.
“More,” she demands, voice husky with desire. “Deeper this time.”
