“We’ll discuss this tomorrow,” he says. “Not a moment sooner.”
He ends the call and leans back slightly into my touch.
“Is Garrison trying to change the payment structure again?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“He’ll stop when I remove his fingers one by one,” Cyrus replies, but the murderous edge has left his voice.
“Save it for after the Hunt,” I remind him, giving his neck a final squeeze before returning to my coffee.
I close the laptop and lean back in my chair. The Hunt, which was once a highlight of Ravenwood’s underground calendar, has become routine. Predictable. I can already map out how the next three days will unfold.
“How many years has it been now? Six? Seven?” I ask, though I know the exact number. Six years and three hundred and sixty-four days since our first Hunt.
Cyrus tosses back the rest of his coffee. “Long enough that I’m starting to forget their faces.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it further. “Remember that redhead from two years ago? The one who thought hiding in the ventilation system was clever?”
“Marketing executive. Tracy... no, Stacy,” I correct myself. “Cried the entire second night we brought her back here.”
“Was that the one who kept promising to make us famous? Or the one who offered us money?”
I shrug. “Does it matter? They all blend together after a while.”
The routine has become formulaic: we hunt, we catch, we enjoy for the allotted time, we release. None of our prey has warranted keeping beyond a week after the Hunt. None of them have challenged us intellectually or satisfied us enough to invoke claiming them for longer.
Cyrus leans over my shoulder again, tapping the screen where I’ve pulled up Keira’s dance company website. “Look at how she moves.” The video shows her leading a contemporary piece, her body conveying more emotion than most people manage in a lifetime of conversation. “There’s something poignant there.”
“Poignant doesn’t mean lasting,” I remind him, though I find myself pausing the video at a moment when her expression transforms—vulnerability hardening instantly to determination.
“Maybe Keira will be different,” Cyrus mutters without conviction, already scrolling on his phone, attention drifting.
I make a noncommittal sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. But as I study her frozen image on screen—the precise tension in her form, the careful distance in her eyes even as she performs passion—something shifts in my assessment. Most prey run on fear or fight in rage. Both are predictable and boring.
But calculation? Strategy? A woman who’s built walls so carefully might be worth the effort of dismantling them.
3
CYRUS
“This is fucking pointless,” I mutter, tugging at my tie as we step into Obsidian, the Blackwoods’ newest nightclub. The place reeks of money—all sleek black surfaces and strategically placed lighting that creates shadows perfect for both seduction and surveillance.
Ace moves through the crowd, ignoring the admiring glances thrown our way. I follow, shoulders tense, bristling when a drunk socialite brushes against me. My patience for these high-profile events wears thinner each time Knox Blackwood summons us to make an appearance.
“Three hours, tops,” Ace says, signaling the bartender, who immediately abandons other customers to serve us first. “Our presence noted, Knox satisfied, then we focus on tomorrow’s hunt.”
I down my whiskey in one burning swallow. “Could’ve spent this time learning her routine instead.”
“We are.” Ace nods toward the stage where technicians adjust the lighting. “Keira Valentino. Featured performer tonight.”
My glass freezes halfway to the bartender. “Here? Tonight?” A surge of adrenaline hits my system, that familiar predatory anticipation tightening my muscles. “Why didn’t you?—”
“Surprise.” The corner of Ace’s mouth quirks up. “Thought you might appreciate seeing our prey in her natural habitat before tomorrow.”
The lights dim, conversations hush, and a single spotlight illuminates the empty stage. The opening notes of a haunting melody fill the room as Keira Valentino steps into the light.
Holy fuck.
The footage didn’t capture this—the electric presence, the way she seems to absorb the spotlight rather than merely stand in it. There are five other dancers with her, but they pale in comparison. Her body moves with liquid precision, each gesture deliberate yet spontaneous. The crowd fades to nothing as I watch her dance, my entire focus narrowing to her form.
Beside me, Ace has gone still. I recognize that stillness—the absolute cessation of movement that happens when something unexpected has claimed his full attention. His glass hangs suspended between counter and lips, forgotten.
