Page 15 of His to Hunt

Because this time, I'm not just runningfor freedom.

I'm running to keep from losing what little I have left.

We're being led across the terrace now, toward the edge of the estate—toward the tree line. The grounds shift from manicured stone to soft grass, and just beyond that, the forest waits.

The women ahead of me move like they've done this before. Like they've already accepted what's coming.

I haven't.

I can't.

Because I never got the chance to choose.

Not like they did.

I was supposed to make it to dawn. I was supposed to survive the night and walk away. That was the deal I made with myself. The lie I convinced myself was enough.

But now I'm standing here in four-inch heels and a sheer designer dress I can't breathe in, wearing the collar of a man whose name is only whispered in powerful rooms, surrounded by women who probably think I belong to him.

They don't know I didn't say yes.

They don't know I didn't say anything at all.

And I don't know if he'll even be the one who finds me.

Because the men?

They've changed.

They've vanished behind closed doors and come back dressed in black—dark shirts, darker jeans, their faces obscured by skull masks that strip them of identity and humanity alike.

There are no names in the woods.

No rules.

Only the ones they enforce once they catch you.

And if the wrong man gets to me first?

I won't get to explain that I'm here for the money. I won't get to beg for something different. I'll be his.

Because once they catch you—you'reclaimed.

The collar doesn't protect me.

It marks me.

It tells them I was already wanted—and that makes me more valuable. More tempting. More of a challenge.

I press my shaking hand to my thigh and try to think. Try to plan.

I'll tear the hem. As soon as the trees take us, I'll reach down and rip it as high as I can without exposing more than I already have. I'll toss the shoes—I can't run in them anyway. They'll only slow me down, and I need to be fast. Faster than I've ever been. Faster than fear.

I'll move low. Keep off the main paths. Don't run in a straight line. Don't be obvious. Keep my head down, but my ears open. Listen for the breathing. The footsteps. The wind shifting against fabric or the snap of a twig beneath someone too sure of himself.

I'll survive this.

I have to.

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