Page 1 of Prey for Me

ACT I

THE HUNTED

“The world is made up of two classes—the hunters and the huntees.”

—The Most Dangerous Gameby Richard Connell

CHAPTER ONE

GRACE

“Grantyourselfgrace,Grace;it’s not every day you’re exiled to paradise.”

I glare down at my cell phone, adjusting my wireless headphones, as my sister beams up at me through the cracked screen protector. I flip it over briefly and grimace at the matching, massive crack on the black case. I promised myself I’d get it fixed before I boarded my private jet this morning. But somehow in the whirlwind of packing my entire life into fifteen suitcases, and being sent away to a remote prison island, I didn’t find the time to buy a new screen or case or instruct my former bodyguard to buy it on my behalf.

Can you blame me? I had a lot going on when my Father decided to inform me late last night that I would be shipped off to a sanctuary for unwed omegas. And I had no choice in the matter. I had to go, even though I went kicking and screaming. Not like I’ve ever had much choice when it comes to anything in my life. But even for someone used to being tossed around like a toy, this is a bit much.

“Grace?” Faith, my beloved and annoying little sister, asks me in a sing-song tone that always spells disaster.

“Yes?” I grumble back, staring out at the glittering azure blue of the Pacific Ocean through the jet’s oval window with a perpetual scowl on my face. Down below, I spot a barely recognizable white dot where Faith is sailing, lagging behind the plane faster than it can steer through the pristine water.

I’ve never had a personality that’s all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a detriment for a woman who moves in my circles, most of all an omega. But even I’m boarding on doing too much; my resting bitch face is threatening to mold itself permanently to my features.

“Look, nothing is going to change by making all the attendants uncomfortable for the next six hours of your twelve-hour flight. I’m not asking you to smile more, sis. I’m just begging you to not shoot daggers at the employees serving you snacks.”

Sometimes, I have to hand it to her; she sounds like the older sister between us during times like this.

“It’s not like we have a reputation to uphold anymore,” I quip, though I do give the flight attendant a curt nod as he refills my champagne flute.

I take a sip and let the silence between us stretch out until it’s uncomfortable. I hate when Faith has a point, but I can’t argue that she doesn’t have a point either. So, instead of admitting defeat, I keep my mouth shut. I know the pilots and crew members aren’t at fault for ripping me away from my life in L.A. They’re just doing their jobs. It’s all because of Father, the bastard who unfortunately contributed to my birth.

Faith twiddles her thumbs like some cartoon character, just as a notification pings in the upper corner of my screen. I glance up from her worried expression, and grimace, clicking the article, only to be confronted by my face. I’m in the same black party dress I’m wearing now, hugging my hips. It’s the same outfitI was wearing when I passed out in my bed. My large black sunglasses cover my bloodshot eyes, and I’m stumbling on sky-high designer heels. I tap my foot, thankful I decided to switch into pumps on the plane—next, a shower when I’m back on dry land.

“I look terrible,” I murmur, my dark brown, shoulder-length hair greasy, coils clinging to my forehead in the photo. I take a moment to sniff myself, and thankfully, I don’t smell like the dumpster fire I’m staring at.

I’m trying and failing miserably to hide the rest of my face from the paparazzi with my hand, as my former bodyguards attempt to wave them off. I glance up a little further to read the gossip article’s title, “L.A.’s OMEGA PARTY PRINCESS SENTENCED TO A SEX CULT!?”

Oh great,I think, rolling my eyes, before swiping away from my disgrace,I’m going to be all over social media for months. At the very least, I wanted to go out looking hot rather than a hag in heels before I started my life as an involuntary nun. I wish I were going to some sex cult to be endlessly fucked by hot beach boys. But alas, I’m not.

Grace Wilder, the obedient omega daughter of a fallen royal family turned political dynasty. My name and face have appeared in every tabloid and the most distinguished newspapers, television shows, and magazines around the world. As the last crown princess of the Wilder dynasty from a small European island that held onto its nobility for far too long, I’ve been the subject of gossip since I fell out of the womb.

However, before I could take the throne beside a suitable alpha husband, of course, the royals of my nation and their nobles were abolished by fiat. Despite the efforts of the wealthy monarchist who had influenced the election as much as possible, we lost our lands and title by the stroke of a pen.

We, the Wilders, found ourselves dethroned but not without our wealth, and most certainly, not withoutpower.

My father, a former king but always an alpha, established a rather…peculiarparty on the European mainland. After pulling some strings here and there and calling in favors via blackmail, he traded his throne for the bully pulpit and used the Wilders’ vast wealth and networks to reestablish us as a political dynasty.

And I was still his crown jewel, the symbol of his power in a world where omegas were becoming even more precious and few, our birth rate declining at an alarming rate. Scientists are still investigating why, but the cause remains a mystery.

That’s who I was bred to be, to obey the alpha men in my family, to one day be sold off for my father’s gain. But when my family’s rivals seized power and began purging the party’s ranks, my sister and I were notified that we would be shipped off to Foxcroft Manor for Unwed Omegas to live out our days powerless to do anything but wait.

For our protection, of course, Father emphasized last night while I had a meltdown and had to be restrained by armed guards as if we hadn’t been living in boarding schools in the United States since we were thirteen and ten. But alas, it’s not like I could’ve won against him. If anything, this is just a continuation of our teen years, being shuffled around like pawns on a political chessboard, hidden away, detested yet adored.

“Do you know where Foxcroft is?” Faith suddenly asks to break the tension as she usually does. She folds easily under pressure.

I shrug and tap my glass with a manicured nail, rubbing my stomach absently as it tenses and ebbs like the waves thousands of miles below my plane’s wings. Period cramps. Bloated and bitchy. What a terrible combination to be. And to add insult to injury, I’m also coming down with some type of summer fever. My skin feels itchy and slightly damp, my stomach twisting intoknots, pulsating in a different, but equally excruciating rhythm to my period cramps. I haven’t had a fever this bad in years, and this one feels like it’ll consume me. I can only hope that Madame Blu–who apparently runs Foxcroft–keeps very experienced doctors on staff year-round, because I’m going to need one.

“Some remote island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. A perfect dumping ground for omegas from super privileged backgrounds. We were always a nuisance to our father, and now, in the middle of a war with his ascendant political rivals, we’re burdens, Faith. So who cares where Foxcroft is, or how nice it sounds on paper? It’s still a prison.”

---