“Someone has to think ahead.” I turn as he hands me my coffee—black with one sugar, never stirred more than twice. I didn’t ask for it. I never do.
He watches me take a sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “Let me guess. You’ve already memorized the profiles of all the prey.”
“Of course.” I set my cup down. “Six women this year. The Blackwoods outdid themselves with the selection.”
Cyrus circles the kitchen island, trailing his fingers along the marble. There’s a restlessness to him today, a barely contained energy that both complements and contrasts my stillness.
“Any favorites?” he asks, picking up a knife from the block. He tests its edge against his thumb, drawing a thin line of blood. He watches it bead with fascination before licking it away.
“Perhaps.” I take the knife from him, wiping it clean before returning it to its place. “There’s a dancer. Something... different about her.”
Cyrus’s eyes darken with interest. He moves toward me, close enough that I can feel his breath. “Different how?”
“I’ve studied her online presence,” I say, moving to the sleek laptop on the counter. A few keystrokes bring up a collection of images—all of her. Keira Valentino. “Look at her eyes.”
Cyrus leans over my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck. “What about them?”
“There’s something haunted there. Even when she’s smiling.” I enlarge one photo—her at a performance, mid-bow, audience applauding. While her lips curve upward, her eyes remain distant, as if part of her exists elsewhere. “It’s in every image. She’s present but... not entirely.”
I cycle through more photos—professional shoots, candid moments captured by others, rare selfies. The pattern remains consistent.
“No family in any of her pictures,” I note, scrolling through her sparse social media. “No childhood photos. No holiday gatherings. Just colleagues, dancers, acquaintances.”
“Orphan?” Cyrus asks, straightening up.
“Likely. Or estranged. Either way, she stands alone.” The thought satisfies something in me. “No emergency contacts. No one to miss her immediately.”
Cyrus drags his finger across her image on screen. “Prettier than last year’s prey.”
“And stronger,” I add. “She’s built her own dance studio from nothing. Lives alone in a secured building. Maintains distance from everyone in her life.” I close the laptop. “She’s entirely self-sufficient.”
“You admire that,” Cyrus observes, reading me as only he can.
“I appreciate efficiency. Independence. She’s survived whatever put that look in her eyes.”
“And that makes her what? A worthy adversary?” There’s amusement in his voice.
I consider this. “It makes her interesting. Most prey run on instinct or panic. I suspect she’ll be... strategic.” I pour myself another coffee as my phone vibrates with a message from Knox Blackwood—final Hunt details. Scanning it quickly, I add, “The briefing is at nine tomorrow.”
“Which gives us time to—” Cyrus starts.
“—study her routine beforehand,” I finish, already syncing the information to our shared calendar.
The penthouse is spacious—six bedrooms, each meticulously designed during the renovation last year. We use exactly one. The rest stand as decoys, occasionally inhabited when appearances matter. We’ve never needed separate spaces, not since we were placed in different rooms at the Architect program and I found Cyrus trembling in his sleep every night. After the third time, the night staff discovered us curled up together and stopped bothering to separate us.
Some habits evolve; others remain etched in bone.
“I’m going to shower,” Cyrus says, stretching his long frame. “Then we should?—”
“—go through the building schematics for her apartment,” I nod. “Already pulled the plans.”
His phone rings, and the tension instantly returns to his shoulders as he glances at the screen. “Garrison,” he mutters, answering with a clipped, “What?”
I continue reviewing documents, but keep my peripheral attention on Cyrus, whose knuckles are whitening around the phone. His voice drops dangerously.
“That wasn’t the arrangement. We agreed—” His jaw clenches. “No, you listen to me, you?—”
I move behind him without conscious thought, placing my palm against the nape of his neck, my thumb finding the pressure point just below his hairline. The effect is immediate—his breathing slows, shoulders dropping incrementally.
