I slide my hand behind her neck, silencing her immediately, fingers pressing firmly enough againsther nape to command her attention. Leaning in until my lips nearly brush her ear, I feel her pulse quicken beneath my touch.
“Let me explain what you’re really signing up for,” I whisper, my voice low enough that only she can hear. “The Hunt isn’t some childish competition. It’s primal. Raw.” My thumb traces small circles at the base of her skull. “You’ll be prey, Miss Sullivan. One of five women who will run, hide, and eventually be caught.”
I feel her breath catch, but she doesn’t pull away.
“And the hunters?” I continue, lips grazing her earlobe. “Fifteen masked men, including myself, who will track you through every inch of the back rooms of this club.” I maintain my grip on her nape, keeping her locked in place as I speak directly into her ear. “Whichever man catches you first stakes his claim on you. He can do whatever he wants with you. Fuck you, pass you around, decide exactly how to use you, and you have no say in the matter.”
Her sharp intake of breath is unmistakable. I pull back just enough to see her face, curious about what I’ll find there. Fear? Disgust? The expected outrage of a woman told she’d be nothing more than a sexual object for the duration of the Hunt?
What I see instead makes my grip tighten involuntarily. Her pupils are dilated, lips slightly parted. There’s fear there, yes—but also something else that makes her cheeks flush and her breathing quicken.
“That wasn’t in the NDA,” she whispers, but there’s noaccusation in her tone. Just a breathless quality that betrays her far more than she realizes.
“The NDA covers confidentiality.” I allow my thumb to trace the line of her jaw. “Not the specifics of what happens during the Hunt itself. Those rules are... unwritten.”
Her eyes never leave mine, searching my face as if trying to determine if I’m bluffing. I’m not. The Hunt has always been about power, dominance, and satisfaction. No matter what she expects, the reality will be far more intense than her mind could imagine.
“Is that why you invited me? So you could claim me yourself?”
Her question hangs in the air between us—bold, direct, and far too perceptive.
I let the silence stretch, watching the way her breath catches as she waits for my answer. Power resides in withholding what others desperately seek, and right now, Mira is seeking confirmation of something she’s already figured out. I won’t give her that satisfaction.
Instead, I allow a slow smile to spread across my face, one that reveals nothing while suggesting everything.
“If your signed NDA is sitting in my office mailbox, waiting for me,” I say, letting my fingers trail away from her neck. “You’ve already made your decision. The real question is whether you truly understand what you’ve agreed to.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, that clever mind workingovertime behind them. I can almost see her cataloging my response, noting my evasion.
“I can’t wait for the Hunt, Miss Sullivan.” I lean closer, just enough to watch her pupils dilate again. “Your expression tells me everything I need to know. You want me to catch you.”
A flush rises from her neck to her cheeks, and anger and determination swirl in her eyes. Her brow furrows in irritation—the little crease between her eyebrows is surprisingly adorable on a woman who thinks she can take me on at my own game.
“You don’t know what I want,” she whispers, defiance evident in every syllable.
“I know enough.” I take a deliberate step back, straightening my jacket. “Two weeks, Miss Sullivan. Prepare yourself—though I doubt anything could truly prepare you for what’s coming.”
The frustration radiating from her as I turn away is palpable, a tangible force at my back. I don’t look back as I weave through the crowd, already picturing her signature on that NDA, binding her to silence about everything she witnesses and experiences.
Let her sit with the doubt. Let her try to guess what I’ll do next. The game’s won—she just hasn’t realized it yet.
6
MIRA
The NDA copy I made glares up at me from the kitchen table, its legal jargon blurring under the harsh overhead light. I’m three glasses of wine in, and while it hasn’t made the terms any clearer, it’s taken the edge off the panic crawling up my spine.
“What the hell did I sign?” I mutter to myself.
I flip through the pages again, my finger tracing underneath phrases that make my stomach clench.
Participant hereby acknowledges that any claims to bodily autonomy are temporarily suspended for the duration of the Hunt...
..waives rights to pursue legal action for any physical, emotional, or psychological duress experienced...
…surrenders to the absolute authority of their captor...
The wine glasstrembles in my hand. This isn’t just a non-disclosure agreement. It’s a fucking consent form for God knows what.
