Page 6 of Hunter's Game
They’d learn eventually.
Learn what Sarah Mitchell had taught her daughter about survival. Learn what Merrick Mitchell had taught her about violence. Learn what her own blood was teaching her about power.
But for now, Eden played her role perfectly. The prodigal daughter returned to help modernize Daddy’s business. The loyal soldier gathering evidence for federal handlers. The perfect weapon, honed by years of undercover work and careful planning.
Reality bent slightly around her as she worked, responding to blood and intention in ways she was just beginning to understand.
Soon, they’d all learn exactly what kind of weapon she’d become.
But not yet. Not until everything was in place. Not until blood remembered exactly what it was meant to be.
Eden smiled as she monitored her father’s empire, feeling that strange power humming in her veins. Time to wake up indeed. The war was about to begin. And this time, blood would remember exactly what it was meant to do.
Destroy empires.
Expose truth.
Reshape reality itself.
But for now, Eden stuck to the plan. Waiting for the right moment to become exactly what destiny dictated.
A Mitchell woman finally embracing her inheritance.
She was a force to be reckoned with, and those who dared to cross her would soon learn the true meaning of consequences.
Eden’s fingers moved across her hidden keyboard with practiced precision, but her mind kept drifting to the way Hunter’s hands had felt on her wrist.
Dangerous territory.
She couldn’t afford distractions, not when she was this close to bringing down her father’s empire. Not when she was finally within reach of the truth about her mother’s death.
The signal interceptor hummed softly beneath the bar, tracking every digital communication in and out of the clubhouse. Three years of undercover work had taught her patience, had honed her ability to maintain multiple covers simultaneously.
To the Devil’s Mark patches, she was just Merrick Mitchell’s tech-savvy daughter, helping modernize the club’s operations. To her DEA handlers, she was Agent Mitchell, their best shot at exposing an international criminal network.
Only the dead knew who she really was. And soon, if everything went according to plan, the body count would include her father.
“Baby girl.” The voice froze her blood. She looked up to find Merrick Mitchell—President ofthe Devil’s Mark MC and the man who’d given her both life and nightmares—looming over the bar.
Merrick Mitchell was an imposing figure—barrel-chested with a full beard shot through with gray, and the kind of rough-hewn features that spoke of barroom brawls and hard living. At fifty, he still maintained the physical presence that had helped him claim and keep his position, though years of excess had added a paunch around his middle. But it was his eyes—the same striking green as Eden’s—that revealed the capacity for calculated cruelty that had built his empire.
The patches nearby instinctively shifted away, knowing better than to be within earshot when the president wanted to talk to his daughter. “We need to talk.”
Fifteen years of training kicked in automatically. Keep your hands steady. Control your breathing. Never let them see fear. Her mother’s lessons, drilled into her long before that fatal night when everything changed.
She followed him to his office, the walk feeling like a march to execution. The room hadn’t changed since her childhood—leather, chrome, and the cloying scent of cigars masking darker things. The same reaper carved into the desk, its scythe permanently stained with what she’d always suspected was blood. The same photos on the wall showing the club’s history, carefully edited to exclude any evidence of her mother’s existence.
“Romano’s impressed with how you’ve modernized our security systems.” Merrick settled behind his desk, the leather creaking beneath his weight. The sound triggered a memory—her mother’s screams, leather creaking, the metallic scent of blood. She forced the memory down, maintaining her carefully constructed mask. “Says you’ve got a real talent for technology.”
“Just doing my job.” She kept her voice neutral, even as bile rose in her throat. The praise was a test. Everything was always a test with him. Every conversation a chess match where one wrong move could be fatal.
“Family business is important.” He lit a cigar, the flame briefly illuminating the scars on his knuckles. Scars she remembered him getting the night he’d beaten one of his men to death in front of her. She’d been twelve. The lesson had been clear: this is what happens to people who betray the club. Who betray family. “Speaking of family...that new mechanic’s been asking questions.”
Hunter. Eden’s heart rate kicked up, but she kept her expression bored. Years of practice made it easy to look unaffected while her mind raced through implications. Had he made some mistake? Had her father’s paranoia picked up something she’d missed?
“Lot of guys try to get my attention, Daddy. You know that.” The word tasted bitter, but she’d learned long ago to use whatever weapons wereavailable. Playing the devoted daughter had kept her alive long enough to build her case.
“This one’s different.” Merrick blew out a stream of smoke, studying her through narrowed eyes. The same eyes she saw in the mirror, the genetic legacy she couldn’t escape. “He’s got soldier written all over him. Military trained. Could be useful...if he checks out.”
