My stomach drops even before he continues, some part of my brain already sensing what’s coming.
“A select group of elite guests has been invited to observe the next three days’ festivities. Wealthy patrons, influential figures, individuals who appreciate... unique entertainment.” Xavier’s smile is razor-sharp. “They’ll be watching from the comfort of private viewing rooms equipped with live feeds from every camera positioned throughout the hunting grounds.”
The blood drains from my face so quickly that I have to grip the arm of the nearest chair to keep from swaying. Around me, I hear sharp intakes of breath, Cora’s quiet “Oh God,” and what sounds like Keira choking on her own saliva.
“Everything will be on display,” Xavier continues, his voice taking on an almost conversational tone that makes the words infinitely worse. “Every chase, every capture, every moment of surrender. Our guests have paid handsomely for front-row seats to witness the Hunt unfold in real time.”
My stomach churns violently, bile rising in my throat. The implications crash over me in nauseating waves. This isn’t just about being hunted by masked men in the privacy of some secluded space. This is about being entertainment. It’s about becoming a spectacle of amusement for people with enough money to buy a front row seat to our humiliation.
“The cameras are positioned strategically throughout the maze and beyond,” Xavier explains, his eyes finding mine again. “High-definition, night vision compatible, multiple angles. Nothing will be missed. No moment will go unrecorded.”
I press my hand to my mouth, fighting down the urge to vomit all over the burgundy carpet. This is so much worse than I imagined. So much more twisted than even my darkest assumptions about what the Blackwoods were capable of planning.
“Some of our guests prefer to place wagers,” Xavier adds casually, as if discussing stock options. “On who will be caught first, by whom, and how long each chase might last. It adds an element of excitement to the proceedings.”
Xavier’s gaze sweeps across the room, and I catch the satisfaction that flickers across his features as he takes in our varied states of unease.
“Before we begin, you’ll need to change into the appropriate attire.” He gestures toward a row of mahogany wardrobes I hadn’t noticed before, each one marked with our names in elegant script. “Your personal clothing will be kept safe until after the hunt concludes.”
My stomach drops. “Change into what exactly?”
That smile returns, sharper now. More dangerous. “Something more... suitable for the evening’s activities.”
Cora practically skips toward her wardrobe, emerald dress already half-unzipped. “This is so exciting! It’s like being in a movie.”
I remain frozen as the other women move towardtheir assigned cupboards with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Lia stalks to hers with obvious anticipation, while Bianca and Sadie approach theirs more cautiously. Keira moves gracefully, but I can see tension in her shoulders.
“Problem, Miss Sullivan?” Xavier’s voice cuts through my paralysis, low and amused.
“I didn’t realize there would be costumes involved.”
“Not costumes.” His eyes never leave mine as the other women begin opening their wardrobes. “Hunting attire.”
The collective gasps and nervous laughter from around the room make my blood run cold. I force myself to look toward the others, needing to see what fresh hell awaits us.
Cora holds up what can barely be called clothing—scraps of white fabric that look more like bandages than any actual garment. “Oh my God, this is...”
“Efficient,” Lia purrs, examining her own outfit with obvious approval. The black material she’s holding appears to consist entirely of strategically placed straps and sheer panels. “Very efficient.”
Bianca stares at her brown leather pieces with undisguised horror. “This isn’t clothing. This is... this is barely anything.”
I finally force myself to open my own wardrobe door, and my hands shake as I pull out the red fabric hanging inside. It’s impossibly soft, some kind of silk that flows like water through my fingers, but there’s so little of it. The design seems to consist of a wrap-style top that would barely cover my breasts and a matching skirt thatwouldn’t reach mid-thigh. Strategic cutouts and tie closures make the purpose crystal clear—easy access.
“You have ten minutes,” Xavier announces, checking his watch. “I suggest you move quickly. The other hunters are already in position.”
I clutch the red silk against my chest, staring at the impossibly small scraps of fabric in my hands. Around me, the other women are in various states of undress, some embracing their situation with disturbing enthusiasm. In contrast, others look as horrified as I feel.
“Ten minutes, ladies,” Xavier’s voice cuts through the room again, and I can hear the dark amusement threading through his tone.
My fingers tremble as I begin to undress, hyper-aware of his presence even though he’s stepped back toward the door to give us the illusion of privacy. The tank top and leggings I chose for tonight feel like armor I’m being forced to shed, each piece leaving me more vulnerable.
The red silk top is worse than I imagined. The wrap design barely contains my breasts, the deep V plunging so low that the curve of my cleavage is completely exposed. The ties at my ribs are the only thing holding the flimsy fabric in place, and I know one sharp tug would leave me completely bare from the waist up.
But the skirt—God, the skirt is obscene. The hem barely skims the tops of my thighs, riding so high that when I move even slightly, I can feel the cool air against parts of myself that should never be exposed publicly.The silk clings to every curve, and I realize with horror that the slightest bend or reach will reveal everything.
“Fuck,” I whisper, tugging futilely at the fabric.
“Language, Miss Sullivan,” Xavier’s voice carries across the room, laden with dark humor. “Though I appreciate your enthusiasm.”
