I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Your pulse is racing.” I don’t touch him, but my gaze flicks to the visible throb at his neck. “You look like you’re about to bolt. Relax, Elliot. No one’s watching us.”
His eyes widen slightly, the panic there unmistakable. It’s the expression of a man who fears his innermost thoughts are somehow visible to everyone around him.
“I’m not—” he begins, but I cut him off with a slight shake of my head.
“Relax,” I repeat, taking a deliberate sip of my drink. “We’re just two colleagues discussing the Hunt. Nothing more than that.”
The relief that washes over his face is almost comical—as though I’ve offered him a script he can follow, a context that allows him to stand here with me without confronting what’s really happening between us.
“So,” Elliot clears his throat, eyes darting to the digital profiles of the women, “who do you have your eyes on tonight? For the Hunt?”
I allow a slow smile to spread across my face, savoring the nervous energy radiating from him. His question is transparent—an attempt to normalize our conversation, to pull us back into the expected exchange of predators discussing female prey.
“I think you already know the answer to that question, Elliot.” I deliberately let my gaze travel down his body, lingering long enough that he shifts uncomfortably. “I’ve selected my prey quite carefully.”
He grips his glass tighter, knuckles turning white. “There are six women to choose from,” he insists, desperation creeping into his voice.
“And yet none of them interests me nearly as much as you do.” I move closer, not touching him but entering his personal space. “I’ve been wondering something, Elliot.”
“What?” The word comes out barely above a whisper.
“Have you thought about what I described to you the other night?” I keep my voice low, intimate. “About what I might do to you when the women are claimed by others?”
The flush spreading across his face tells me everything before he even speaks. His pupils dilate visibly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he manages.
“No?” I lean closer, my lips nearly brushing his ear. “You haven’t been thinking about being on your knees? About my hand in your hair, guiding you exactly where I want you?”
He trembles, and I press my advantage.
“Tell me, Elliot,” I whisper, “did you stroke that beautiful cock of yours while thinking about it? About being my good boy?”
His sharp intake of breath is audible even over the ambient noise of the room. His face flushes crimson, and I know I’ve hit the mark.
His reaction confirms what I’ve suspected all along. The way he froze when I called himgood boy, the visible shudder—it’s textbook. Elliot Chambers has a praise kink that could be exploited.
“Why don’t we continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable?” I suggest, gesturing toward the private dining area where pre-Hunt refreshments have been laid out. “The event doesn’t begin for hours. We might as well enjoy ourselves.”
Elliot hesitates, clearly torn between the desire to flee and the compulsion to follow. The latter wins out—as I knew it would.
“Just dinner,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
I lead him to a quiet corner table, away from the other hunters who are still strategizing their pursuits. The Blackwood brothers hold court at the center table, while the Dexter twins hover near the bar, eyes locked on Keira’s profile.
“You know,” I say as we settle with our plates, “you performed admirably at last year’s Hunt. The way you tracked that redhead through the east wing showed real instinct.”
His shoulders straighten slightly at the praise, a subtle shift that speaks volumes.
“It wasn’t that impressive,” he demurs.
“Don’t sell yourself short. It was excellent work.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “I appreciate a man who knows how to pursue what he wants with... determination.”
His eyes briefly meet mine before darting away, but that momentary connection reveals everything—the hunger, the conflict, the desperate need for approval.
Throughout our meal, I sprinkle in casual praise—his knowledge of wine, his insights about the other hunters, his impeccable taste in clothing. Each compliment lands like a carefully placed arrow, piercing through his defenses. By dessert, he’s leaning toward me subconsciously, hanging on my words.
The Hunt begins in three hours, and my anticipation builds with each passing minute. While others prepare to chase women through Purgatory’s elaborate grounds, I’ll be pursuing a different kind of prey—one already half-snared in my web.
