That therapist I saw twice would have a field day with this. Another manifestation of trauma response, she’d probably say. The part of me that should want gentle connection is broken, warped by years of learning that vulnerability equals pain.
She’d be right.
I pace the length of my apartment, five steps one way, five steps back.
“This is insane,” I mutter to myself, running my fingers through my hair.
But I can’t stop thinking about it. About being pursued, wanted so fiercely that someone would hunt for me. Not for my choreography skills or my body on a stage, but for pure attraction and desire. The thought sends another inappropriate thrill through my core.
I’ve spent my entire adult life being in control—of my body, my career, my emotions. The idea of surrendering that control, even temporarily, should terrify me. Instead, it’s awakening something primal that I’ve kept buried beneath layers of discipline.
Knox Blackwood has hired me for the past two months to choreograph and perform at their new nightclub, Obsidian. Iassume that’s why I’ve been invited, though it seems strange he didn’t just ask me. I pick up the invitation again, running my finger over the embossed details.
The logical part of my brain screams warnings. This could be dangerous. Reckless. Potentially career-ending if word got out.
But when was the last time I felt truly alive outside of dance?
My phone buzzes with a text from the club owner, another demand about tonight’s performance. Another person wanting to control my art, to make it more palatable, less authentic.
I look back at the invitation. Maybe that’s it—the appeal of this madness. For once, I wouldn’t have to be Keira Valentino, the choreographer who carved her career from nothing. I could just be a woman, desired and pursued without pretense.
I reach for the invitation again, turning it over in my hands. There’s more inside the envelope—a folded document with dense text in small print. An NDA and detailed contract, requiring my signature to confirm participation, binding me to silence about whatever happens at the Hunt.
My eyes scan the legal jargon, catching phrases like consensual pursuit and physical claiming. The clinical language describing such primal acts creates an odd contrast that makes my heart beat faster.
I should throw this away. Call the police. Do something—anything—other than what I’m contemplating.
Instead, I read the contract again, more carefully this time. Despite the outrageous premise, the document itself seems meticulously crafted to establish boundaries and safety protocols. There’s even a section about where hunters can’t enter for thirty minutes.
They’ve thought of everything. The thoroughness is almost... reassuring.
I sink onto my couch, the contract in my lap. The signature line at the bottom stares up at me, blank and waiting. Accordingto the fine print, signing doesn’t fully commit me—I still need to deliver it in person to Purgatory, their exclusive club, to confirm my participation.
A loophole. A chance to change my mind.
My fingers find a pen on my coffee table, hovering over the page. Every logical part of me is screaming not to do this. But something else—something I’ve kept locked away beneath years of rigid self-control—reaches for the pen.
I sign my name with a quick, decisive stroke before I can think better of it.
There. Done. But not really done.
I fold the contract carefully, sliding it back into its envelope. Tomorrow. I’ll take it to Purgatory tomorrow and make my final decision. I still have time to back out, to pretend this moment of madness never happened.
But as I set the envelope on my nightstand, I already know I won’t.
2
ACE
The Hunt approaches again. I can feel it in the air—that electric anticipation that makes my skin hypersensitive and my senses sharper. Our penthouse is quiet, save for the occasional clink of cufflinks against marble countertops and the soft padding of expensive shoes across hardwood floors.
I adjust my sleeve, catching my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawls beneath us, oblivious to what’s coming. I smile slightly at the thought.
“You’re doing that thing again.” Cyrus’s voice comes from behind me. I don’t need to turn to know he’s leaning against the doorframe, watching me with that half-smirk that mirrors my own.
“What thing?” I ask.
“Planning. I can practically hear the gears turning.” He steps closer, his reflection joining mine in the glass. I turn and reach to adjust his collar, smoothing it against his neck. He doesn’t thank me. He doesn’t need to.