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“It appears so. We might be able to use that to our advantage,” I murmur.
Matthieu strides toward the bar before he speaks. “Tonight, you will all experience the highest heights one can attain through pleasure and pain.” He turns, extending his arm toward the doorway as Henri and Amélie enter.
“Fuck. He’s gorgeous,” Samantha groans. Her eyes trail over Henri’s tall, broad frame with lust, and he smirks. Samantha squirms in her seat, pressing her legs together.
“Isn’t that the woman from the Chosen ceremony?” Wes questions, shifting my attention to Amélie. She looks about the same height, but that’s where all the similarities end.
I shake my head. “Didn’t she have black hair and blue eyes? Plus, her facial structure is different.”
Leaning, Wes studies Amélie. “There’s something about the smile, but I guess you’re right.”
Once they both reach the front, Matthieu continues, “The rules are simple—there are none. You have full reign of the facilities. The game will begin in fifteen minutes, and your targets for the night will be released.” He takes a final look at Isabella before he says, “Happy hunting,” and exits the room.
“What did the fuckwit mean by kill?” Isabella demands, storming over to stand in front of Senator Baker.
An oily, slimy grin, eerily similar to his half-sister’s, appears on the Senator’s face. “He means, dear, sweet Bella,” he lifts a knuckle to her face, but she steps back, only making the Senator chuckle. “He means tonight we’ll be hunting and fucking whomever we catch, and after we’re satisfied, we can do whatever our heart’s desire to them.”
“I didn’t sign up to kill anyone, Matthew. Let me the fuck out of here,” Isabella sneers.
Throwing her head back, Samantha laughs. “Of course, you’d be too freaking soft for this shit. I told you not to invite her, Matthew. You should’ve listened.” Her gaze lands on Aaron. “Much like your daughter—too fucking soft.”
Aaron’s eye twitches, barely enough to be noticeable, but he remains silent. It’s Wes’s father who speaks, “Is this why you invited us here?”
“I was hoping we could come to some sort of agreement, seeing as how we have you by the proverbial, and after tonight, maybe literal, balls,” Senator Baker singsongs.
My face scrunches in disgust. “Stupid, arrogant fucker.”
Donald’s eyes glint with amusement. “Is that so?” Senator Baker’s smile falters. His earlier confidence slips. It’s apparent he’s not used to dealing with Donald Edgewood—a lesson he’ll soon wish he’d learned before slinging threats. Wes’s father peers up at the camera and says, “Devereux, we’re leaving.” The door slides open, and then each member of the Council exits, ignoring the demands of the Senator to stay.
“I told you there was no way they could be involved,” Owen gloats.
“I’m leaving,” Isabella hisses, stalking toward the entrance, but nothing happens. “I said. Let. Me. The fuck. Out of here,” she demands, whirling around.
At her words, the Senator’s earlier smugness returns. “No one else leaves before the sun rises. Survive the night if you want out,” he spits, yanking her head back as he settles behind her. His hand glides up her torso, then squeezes her breast until she screams in pain. “Your Daddy should’ve taken my offer to run as Vice President. Let’s see how serious he takes me when I send him a video of you being fucked stupid.”
The door to the surveillance room opens, and Matthieu walks back in and freezes at the sight of Isabella in the Senator’s clutches. “Are you sure we can’t kill them now?” he growls.
“Brian and the other two senators, sure. Samantha and Baker—not until we get the chip deactivated,” I explain, swiveling in my chair to face them.
Inhaling, Matthieu collects himself before pressing the intercom. “The game hasn’t begun. I suggest you let her go unless you want this night to end very differently, Senator Baker,” he commands—his French lilt more prominent as he tries to control his anger.
The Senator snarls at the reprimand, tugging harder on Isabella’s roots before he shoves her away and stomps to the bar to demand a drink. I glance down at my watch. Ten minutes. “O, Wes, and Wy, you all should get going to be in position,” I instruct, turning away from the monitors.
A smile forms on Owen’s face. His hazel eyes blaze with the promise of retribution. “Porter is mine.”
Sebastian sits to my right as we watch the carnage before us. There might be some sympathy for the slain and those still left if they weren’t traitors.
“Do you think they realize they’re killing their own people?” Sebastian laughs, entertained by one of the Senators slitting the throat of one of his men, unknowingly. He stands proudly over the masked man he killed, too focused to realize a true hunter stealthily moves behind him. Much like a doe in a field, he isn’t aware until it’s too late. Amélie’s knife slams into the back of his neck with such force that it pierces his cervical vertebrae, poking through his Adam’s apple until the sharp tip, coated in the man’s blood, is visible from his throat.
Never taking my eyes from the lethal assassin, I ask, “Is she always like this?”
“From all the stories I’ve heard, yes. This is my first time actually seeing her or Henri in person. I’ve only ever seen footage of their work.”
Amélie pulls the blade from his throat and watches as he drops lifelessly to the ground. She says something in French before spitting in the dead Senator’s face. “What did she say?” I inquire, wishing I’d learned French alongside the five other languages I speak fluently.
“Pigs deserve to be gutted,” Sebastian replies, and I quirk a brow.
“Indeed they do,” I mumble, switching screens.
