Page 4 of His to Hunt

Inside, the air is heavier, warmer, perfumed with money and power. Every breath I take drags it deeper into my lungs, settling behind my ribs, pressing against my spine like it belongs there.

The corridor stretches out before me, lined with mirrors that soften edges and blur reflections. Still, I look. The girl in the glass is not the one who left Avery's condo. She's something sharper, wilder, wrapped in sheer fabric and mystery, her body a contradiction of elegance and defiance.

The dress clings like a second skin, slipping overthe curve of my hips and the dip of my waist. It leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. The cool night air slides easily through the fabric, pebbling my nipples noticeably. Under normal circumstances, I would feel embarrassed, but every one of us is wearing this dress and right now, all I want is to blend in, even if that means I have to expose myself to do it. My heels click with every step, the red soles flashing behind me like a promise. Or a warning.

The corridor opens into a room too quiet to be real. Women stand scattered throughout the space, some poised with grace that only comes from bloodlines and training.

Each one of us wears the same sheer gowns, identical masks, bodysuits tailored to the Club's standards. But there's one detail I missed. Each woman wears a thin silver anklet just above the bone, a glint of light that catches with every movement. And I don't have one. It's only a matter of time before someone notices.

Shit. How did I miss that? There wasn't one in the box that'd been delivered containing the invitation, dress, shoes, and mask.

A man appears, gesturing with a single hand. We move as one—no hesitation, no sound but the soft rustle of fabric and the hum of music from the next room. The double doors swing open, and the world changes.

I clench my fist at my side, trying to calm my nerves. I just need to make it through the night. After that, I'm free.

The ballroom isn't a room and if it wasn't for the tightness in my chest, it would completely mesmerize me.

It's a cathedral, dripping in gold and candlelight. The men line the edges of the room like shadows in designer suits, each wearing a mask, each watching with heavy gazes.

I walk with the others in a perfect line. The music throbsbeneath my feet, a slow rhythm that coils around my spine. We're not guests. We're offerings.

But I'm not here to be offered. I'm here to run. To escape. To win money that will buy me a new life.

I keep my head up, my stride even. The men study us. Some smile behind their masks, some glance and look away, others stare as if they're already stripping us apart.

I feel him before I see him. It moves through me like cold lightning—sharp and sudden. My skin prickles, my pulse stutters. When my eyes find him across the room, I almost stumble.

He stands tall, his broad shoulders draped in a perfectly tailored black suit that seems to absorb the light. His mask is matte black with silver detailing at the temple, leaving exposed a jaw so sharp it could cut glass. And those piercing blue eyes don't just look—they dissect.

He doesn't look away. He doesn't blink.

He sees me. Not the dress. Not the mask. Me.

The girl with no anklet. The lie stitched into lace. And worse? I feel it in the pit of my stomach—he knows I don't belong.

I don't run, even though my instincts scream. I hold my head higher and walk straighter. But it doesn't matter. Because the moment I stepped into this room, he saw me.

The line slows at the center of the room. The men step closer. We stand in silence, breathing in candlelight and expectation. My chin stays high, but my insides are unraveling.

I calculate my odds. Count the men, count the exits, imagine the forest waiting beyond the walls. If I'm fast enough, smart enough, maybe I can do what no one has ever managed—stay uncaught until dawn. Claim my prize. Disappear for good.

I came here to run. To escape. To win.

But as those piercing blue eyes hold mine from across the room, I know that tonight, winning might be the most dangerous game of all.

Three

BECKETT

The room shiftsthe moment she steps through the door—subtle, silent, seismic. Like a fault line cracking beneath marble floors, invisible to everyone but me. My grip tightens on the glass in my hand as I watch her move with deliberate grace.

She's not supposed to be here.

Not that I recognize her—because I don't. I would've remembered a face like that, a mouth like that, a presence that doesn't shrink under the weight of this place. But because something's missing. A flash of silver, a single detail that separates the chosen from the strays.

She doesn't wear an anklet, which means she wasn't invited.

Every legitimate guest receives their silver anklet the night of the ball, hand-delivered to their residence by a club representative. The anklet serves as both invitation and verification, a delicate chain that marks them as authenticated participants.

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