Page 2 of Hunted By the Masked BRATVA
Hearing the name out loud makes my hands want to curl into fists. I keep them loose at my sides, keep my expression neutral behind my own mask of delicate gold lace that covers the upper half of my face.
"I don't know anyone by that name." The lie tastes bitter.
"No?" He steps closer, and I force myself not to retreat. Men like this, and I know what kind of man wears a mask like that in this world, they can smell fear. "Then you won't mind if I ask him to join us. Clear up this little misunderstanding."
"I mind." The words come out sharper than I intended. "I mind you putting your hands on me. I mind you destroying my drink and my dress. And I mind you standing between me and my evening."
For a moment, he's silent. Then that almost-smile widens into something that makes heat coil low in my stomach despite the danger crackling between us.
"Your evening." He lets the words hang in the air. "What did you have planned for your evening, milaya?"
The endearment should sound mocking. Instead, it sounds like a promise. Or a threat.
I can't tell which is more dangerous.
Behind him, I can see Troskoy glancing toward the sound of breaking glass. Any second now, someone will come to clean it up. Any second now, my window will close completely.
Unless—
My gaze snaps past the stranger's shoulder, to the long table against the far wall. Ten white masks sit in a neat row, each one numbered in elegant gold script. The masks for The Hunt.
I've heard about this tradition. Every Bratva masquerade ends the same way: women who want to play volunteer to be hunted through the hotel grounds. If they make it without being caught when the bell tolls, they get one wish granted by the hosts. The Vasiliev’s. But then men who play…if they catch a woman they can claim whatever they want. It's supposed to be thrilling, consensual danger. A game for people who find regular parties too boring.
I never planned to participate. I planned to be gone before midnight, when The Hunt begins.
But right now, that table might be my only route to ending Troskoy.
"Excuse me," I say, but I don't wait for permission.
I slip past him, my shoulder brushing his chest. He's solid as stone. He doesn't try to stop me, but I can feel his attention following me across the ballroom like a physical weight.
The table is suddenly swarmed upon by women who are giggling and joking. Panic rises in me, that I’ll miss my chance, again.
But one mask remains. Number four.
My hand closes around it just as the first chime of midnight echoes through the ballroom.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcement booms from hidden speakers. "The Hunt begins in one minute. Participants, please make your way to the northern entrance."
I clutch the mask against my chest and turn.
He's standing exactly where I left him, hands in his pockets, watching me. Even without seeing his eyes, I know he's smiling behind that blank black mask.
Then he reaches up and removes it.
For three seconds, I see his face, all brutal angles and dark intensity, with eyes like a wolf's, before he pulls a different mask from inside his jacket. This one is red. Crimson silk that covers the same portion of his face as before.
A hunter's mask.
Our eyes meet across the ballroom, and I understand with perfect, crystalline clarity:
He's not letting me get away.
Konstantin
She's going to run.
I can see it in the way her spine straightens, the way her fingers tighten around that mask. Number four. She doesn't know what she's just volunteered for, but she knows it's better than staying here where I can ask questions she doesn't want to answer.
