“Breathe through the fear,” I whisper to myself, the mantra I’ve used since my first major performance. “Use it.”
I glance around at the other women. Bianca, the artist with wary eyes, keeps adjusting her position on the velvet couch, unable to find comfort. Sadie sits in the corner, her glasses reflecting the dim light as she watches quietly. Then there’s Lia, lounging like she’s at a spa rather than waiting to be hunted.
My instincts catalog every unconscious movement, every micro expression. The tension in Bianca’s shoulders. The slight tremor in Sadie’s hands when she pushes her glasses up. The way Lia’s casual pose is just a fraction too deliberate to be genuine.
I smooth down the simple black dress I’m wearing, already regretting not choosing something with more mobility. If this Hunt is anything like the contract described, I’ll need every advantage my years of dance training can provide.
The door swings open, and two more women enter—the final participants. My senses immediately sharpen, reading their energy before they even speak.
The first woman radiates controlled intensity. Something in her alert posture and scanning gaze broadcasts seriousness before she even introduces herself. She’s dressed practically—black leggings, fitted tank, running shoes. Smart. She’s thinking about movement, escape.
Behind her is a woman who couldn’t be more different—confident bordering on reckless in an emerald dress that catchesthe light beautifully but screams impractical for anything requiring physical exertion.
“Well,” says Bianca, her voice steady despite the slight tremor in her hands. “I guess we’re all in this together now.” She stands, extending her hand. “I’m Bianca. Painter by day, apparently prey by night.”
I offer my hand, trying to keep my voice steady despite the thundering pulse in my wrists. “Keira. Professional dancer, which I’m hoping gives me some advantage in whatever this hunt involves.”
I can feel the undercurrent of emotion in the room shift with their arrival. The energy has changed—the Hunt is becoming real.
“Advantage assumes we want to avoid being caught,” Lia says, her amber eyes gleaming with dangerous intent. Her posture on the couch reminds me of a lioness at rest – relaxed but ready to pounce. “Lia. I run an art gallery, and I’m here by choice.”
Sadie adjusts her glasses. “Sadie. I work in tech.” Her voice is soft but determined. I notice how her fingers tap rhythmically against her thigh—a nervous habit she’s trying to control.
“Cora Pike.” The woman in the emerald dress practically vibrates with excitement. “And before anyone asks, yes, Mayor Pike is my father, and no, he doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Mira Sullivan,” says the serious one, standing tense near the door. “Journalist.”
Bianca raises an eyebrow. “A journalist at a secret sex hunt with an iron-clad NDA. That’s either very brave or very stupid.”
“Probably both,” Mira responds.
I shift slightly, my body automatically finding balance on the velvet couch. “Has anyone actually participated in something like this before?”
Nervous laughter and head shakes answer my question.
“First time for everyone then,” Lia drawls, examining her nails. “How wonderfully democratic.”
The conversation shifts to plans after the Hunt. I find myself laughing. “I was supposed to choreograph a music video shoot on Monday. Assuming I still have functioning legs.”
“Optimistic,” Sadie mutters.
Cora grins. “I’m supposed to attend a charity luncheon with my father. Can you imagine explaining why I’m walking funny?”
“You could always blame it on new heels,” Lia suggests, her voice dripping with amusement. “Works every time.”
“What about you, Mira?” Bianca asks. “Any mundane responsibilities waiting?”
“Deadline for a story.” The irony isn’t lost on me. “Though I doubt my editor would accept ‘participated in underground sex hunt’ as justification for being late.”
“Underground sex hunt,” I repeat. “When you say it like that, it sounds even more insane.”
When Mira suggests we form an alliance, I feel a flash of relief. Safety in numbers. But Lia’s throaty laugh cuts through the room.
“Why the fuck would I do that?” Her eyes gleam with intensity. “I came here to be hunted. To be claimed. To finally experience something real.”
Before anyone can respond, the door swings open.
A man enters, his presence immediately dominating the room. Xavier Blackwood, I recognize him from Obsidian. His leather clothing clings to his muscular frame, and his steel-gray eyes sweep over us with predatory assessment.