Page 8 of Hunter's Game
Through the cameras, Eden watched her father and Romano examine the tablets. Their lips moved, but she’d disabled the audio in that room weeks ago, preparing for exactly this kind of meeting. She didn’t need to hear them to know what they were discussing. The same things that had gotten her mother killed.
Her phone buzzed again—this time with a message that made her blood run cold. An alert from one of her automated searches, tracking financial transactions through the club’s hidden accounts. A familiar name had popped up: Thompson. Her DEA handler’s signature on documents she knew he hadn’t authorized.
The implications hit hard. If Thompson was compromised…
“You okay?” Hunter’s voice pulled her back to the present. He’d moved closer, using the pretense of ordering another drink to study her face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
In a way, she had. The ghost of every lie, every betrayal, every secret that had led to this moment.
Eden had learned long ago that blood wasn’t thicker than water—it was thicker than guilt. Than loyalty. Than love. Her father had taught her that lesson well.
Now she just had to prove she’d learned it.
Even if it meant sacrificing the first man who’d made her feel something real in years.
She looked at Hunter, seeing the warrior beneath his careful cover. The man who could either save her mission or destroy everything she’d worked for. The complication she couldn’t afford but couldn’t seem to resist.
“Just ghosts from the past,” she said finally, forcing a smile that felt like broken glass. “Nothing worth worrying about.”
He didn’t believe her—she could see it in his eyes. But he played along, maintaining their careful dance of half-truths and hidden motives.
The night stretched ahead, full of shadows and secrets. Tomorrow would bring the gallery showing, the chance to gather final proof of her father’s crimes. The opportunity to avenge her mother’s death.
But tonight...tonight she had to maintain her cover. Had to keep playing the devoted daughter while gathering evidence that would destroy everything her father had built.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. Sarah Mitchell had died trying to expose the truth about theartifacts. Now Eden was using those same artifacts to dismantle the organization from within.
Like mother, like daughter.
The thought should have comforted her. Instead, it felt like a prophecy.
Or a curse.
Through the cameras, she watched her father shake Romano’s hand, sealing whatever deal they’d made. Watched as the tablets disappeared into Romano’s briefcase, taking their secrets with them.
Soon, she told herself. Soon she’d have enough evidence to bring it all down.
Until then, she had a role to play. A cover to maintain.
A dangerous game to win.
Even if winning meant losing everything—including the man watching her with eyes that saw too much. Even if winning meant following in her mother’s bloody footsteps. Even if winning meant becoming the very thing she was fighting to destroy.
After all, blood was thicker than water. But secrets...
Secrets were thicker than blood.
The problem with priceless artifacts is that they all look the same when you’re staring down the barrel of a gun. Eden kept her hands carefully visible as she circled one of her father’s prized acquisitions—a Damascus steel dagger that had disappeared from the Metropolitan Museum three months ago. Its distinctive blade patterns caught the gallery’s carefully designed lighting, making the ancient steel seem to ripple with hidden messages.
If they only knew how right that observation was.
“Beautiful piece,” one of the collectors murmured, his Italian accent as carefully cultivated as his appearance. “The pattern-welded steel is remarkably well-preserved for its age.”
Eden allowed the appropriate amount of enthusiasm to color her voice as she discussed metallurgical techniques she’d researched extensively. All while her hidden camera captured every detail of the man’s face for later identification.
The private showing at the Devil’s Mark gallery was exactly the kind of high-class façade that made her skin crawl. Crystal champagne flutes and canapés didn’t belong in an MC clubhouse. Neither did the dozen “art collectors” currently circling the room like vultures, their designer suits a stark contrast to the leather cuts of the watching bikers.
But it was Eden who really didn’t belong. She moved through the crowd in a black dress that hugged every curve, playing the perfect MC princess while her fingers danced across her phone between conversations. To casual observers, she looked like any privileged daughter showing off her father’s collection. Only someone with very specific training would recognize that she wasn’t socializing—she was gathering evidence.
