“She’s not running blind,” I say, keeping my voice level despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. “She’s moving with purpose, but she’s out of her element. Scared, but thinking.”
Cyrus laughs, the sound echoing off concrete walls. “Makes it better when they think they have a chance.”
I place a steadying hand on his shoulder. My brother’s unpredictability is both his greatest asset and liability during a hunt. The unhinged quality that makes him so effective also makes him dangerous—to himself and occasionally our objectives. Where I calculate, Cyrus combusts.
“She’ll be listening for us,” I murmur. “Expecting heavy footfalls, rapid pursuit.”
“Or maybe,” Cyrus says, his eyes glittering, “she wants to be caught.”
The thought sends a charge through both of us. The idea of Keira, with all that controlled grace we witnessed on stage, being reduced to prey, scrambling through unfamiliar territory, pulse racing, breath coming in short gasps as she tries to outmaneuver us.
I notice Cyrus shift his weight, his hand moving to adjust himself in his pants. His arousal is physical, immediate. Mine manifests differently—a tightening in my chest, a sharpening of focus.
“Control yourself,” I say, though I feel the same tension coursing through my body. “We have seventy-two hours. No need to rush.”
Cyrus checks his watch. “We’re already fifteen minutes in. Clock’s ticking.”
I scan the maze ahead of us, noting the most optimal route based on the echo of her footsteps. “Patience.”
“I don’t want to waste a single minute.” Cyrus’s voice drops to a growl that would terrify most men. “I want to spend as long as possible completely tearing her apart.”
The hunger in his voice is familiar—my brother has always approached hunts with visceral intensity, where I prefer a measured approach. We complement each other that way. His savagery and my calculation. Two different methods with the same end goal.
“She’s not like the others,” I remind him, tracking the sound of movement ahead. “Breaking her will require finesse.”
Cyrus laughs, the sound echoing off concrete walls. “Finesse? I’ll leave that to you, brother. I plan to strip away every layer she thinks she has until there’s nothing left but need.”
I observe him—the tension in his shoulders, the predatory gleam in his eyes. Where I harbor ice in my veins, Cyrus burns with barely contained fire.
“You saw her dance,” he continues, voice low and dangerous. “All that discipline. All that restraint. I want to watch it crumble, piece by piece.”
I nod, acknowledging the appeal of dismantling something so carefully constructed. “We’ll each break her in our own way.”
Cyrus retrieves his knife, running his thumb along the edge. Not to test its sharpness—we both know it’s perfectly honed—but for the pleasure of feeling its potential. The blade catches light as he twirls it between his fingers, a nervous habit from childhood that now reads as threatening.
“When I’m done with her,” he whispers, “she’ll forget she ever had a will separate from ours.”
I recognize the darkness consuming him—it surfaces during every hunt, though never this intensely. Something about Keirahas awakened a dormant beast within both of us, but Cyrus lacks my restraint.
A flash of purple fabric catches my eye—a glimpse of Keira’s hunt dress darting between steel columns thirty meters ahead. My pulse quickens imperceptibly, but I maintain my composure, figuring out the optimal interception point based on her trajectory.
Cyrus spots her a second later. His reaction is immediate.
“There,” he growls, already moving before the word fully leaves his mouth.
I watch my brother’s stalking transform into something feral. His shoulders hunch forward, his stride lengthens, and he launches himself toward our prey with single-minded determination. The careful approach we discussed moments ago evaporates in that flash of purple.
“Cyrus—” I begin, but he’s already too far gone.
I note the slight tremor in his hands, the intensity of his breathing through our comm link. Seven years of participating in the Hunt, and I’ve never seen him this affected by a target. Not even close.
So much for strategy. So much for making her wait, building the anticipation until she’s half-mad with fear and uncertainty. Cyrus has abandoned the calculated pursuit we perfected over years, choosing instead to give in to base instinct.
And yet, I can’t bring myself to be irritated by his lack of discipline. Something about Keira Valentino has slipped beneath my own carefully maintained control, creating a similar urgency I’m fighting to suppress.
I adjust my timetable. Our original plan—to track her movements, learn her patterns, and intercept her at the perfect psychological moment—clearly requires revision. Cyrus has made that decision for both of us.
“Looks like we won’t be taking our time with this one after all,” I mutter to myself, resigned to the inevitable.
