I’ve been tracking her communications for days now, a simple matter when you own the kind of surveillance equipment Phoenix develops. Every text, every call, every digital footprint—all of it flows through my systems before reaching her devices.
I pull up her text thread with Cora Pike. The mayor’s daughter has been sending increasingly excited messages about dress choices and strategy. Their friendshipfascinates me—two women from completely different worlds, bound by loyalty that neither seems to question.
Whatever we wear, we need to be able to move in it.
Smart girl. She understands this isn’t some social event, even if she doesn’t grasp the full scope of what she’s walked into.
The security camera I installed in her apartment shows me her routine—she’s been frantically researching the Hunt and me, but coming up blank. But I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she glances around nervously as if she knows I’m watching.
My phone buzzes with a report from Vane. All participants confirmed. Equipment tested. The maze stands ready, its walls gleaming under the afternoon sun filtering through Purgatory’s skylights.
Returning my attention to my surveillance camera in her apartment, I notice there’s a sharpness to her focus that wasn’t there before. She’s preparing for the biggest story of her career while willingly entering my web.
I find myself studying her face on the monitor, the determined set of her jaw, the way she tucks that strand of hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating. Most prey come to the Hunt driven by money, status, or a simple thrill-seeking desire.
Mira Sullivan comes hunting for the truth.
That makes her infinitely more dangerous than the others. And infinitely more intriguing.
My fingers drum against the desk as I consider the variables. Someone warned her—someone withresources and technical knowledge. They want her to abandon this investigation, to walk away from whatever story she thinks she’ll find here.
They want her to run, but she won’t. Not Mira Sullivan. She’ll walk into that maze tonight with her chin raised and her fighter’s instincts blazing, ready to expose whatever secrets she thinks she’ll find.
The thought sends a dark thrill through me, followed immediately by an emotion. One that feels uncomfortably like concern.
I’ve orchestrated dozens of Hunts. Watched potential partners navigate the challenges I’ve designed, testing their limits, their desires, and their willingness to submit. It’s always been about control—finding those who understand power dynamics, who crave the structured release of surrendering to someone stronger.
But with Mira, the rules feel different. She’s not here seeking submission or playing games of dominance. She’s here hunting me as much as I’m hunting her.
The thought of her navigating those maze walls, facing challenges designed to strip away pretense and reveal core desires... should excite me. It does excite me. But underneath that anticipation lies a compulsion I refuse to accept.
“Lost in thought about your journalist?”
Knox’s voice cuts through my brooding as he strides into my office without knocking. Vane follows, carrying a tablet that likely contains final security protocols for tonight.
“She’s hardly little,” I reply, not looking away fromthe monitor showing Mira curled up on her sofa with a book.
“No, she’s definitely not.” Knox settles into one of my chairs with that lazy grace he’s perfected. “Saw her the other night at the bar. Curves in all the right places, an attitude that could cut glass. I can see the appeal.”
A cold sensation slides down my spine. “Stay away from her.”
“Possessive already?” Knox’s grin widens. “She hasn’t even entered the maze yet.”
Vane glances between us. “The journalist presents complications regardless of personal attachment. Her investigation could expose us.”
“Which is why she’ll be claimed tonight,” I say. “Problem solved.”
Knox leans forward, amusement dancing in his blue eyes. “Unless she solves you first. What if your little truth-seeker finds more than she bargained for?”
The possibility has occurred to me. More than once. The way Mira looks at me sometimes, like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle.
“She signed the NDA,” I remind them. “Whatever she finds, she can’t publish.”
“But she can run,” Vane points out. “Participants who don’t complete the Hunt retain their freedom.”
The word hangs between us like a challenge. Run. As if Mira Sullivan would ever run from anything, especially when she’s convinced she’s on the verge of the biggest story of her career.
“She won’t run.” I close the laptop. “She’s tooinvested in whatever truth she thinks she’s going to uncover.”
