I plant myself on the bench, stretching my legs across the aisle so Colton has to step over them. He does, not missing a beat, and settles against the wall.
The door buzzes. We’re on.
Inside, the Boardroom is colder still. The paneling is old oak, the table so long it could double as a bowling alley. Sixteen chairs, all high-back leather, arranged around the beast of a table. The only light comes from a row of shaded lamps and the dying sun through the far windows. There are crystal decanters on two of the sideboards.
Overkill, but it always is.
We walk in together, as always. It’s a move the Board loves to hate. Rhett first, Colton a step behind, then Julian, then me.
The Board is assembled around the table. There are seven of them, all men now except for the one woman who never, ever blinks. Some of them I know by name. Others are just faces—square, ageless, shiny-eyed. All of them are predators.
Dean Marcus is here. That’s a surprise. He’s usually too grand to show for these. He sits at the left hand of the seat reserved for the Chair, posture stiff, fingers white-knuckled on the table edge. The suit is perfect, hair perfectly parted. Eyes like wet glass.
The Board waits for us to sit. We take the seats at the far end, close enough to be respectful, far enough to be a statement. The three of us sit, and no one speaks as Rhett takes his spot in the Chair seat. In the silence, I count the sounds: Julian’s foot tapping, the soft click of Rhett’s tongue against his teeth, Colton’s breath slow and regular, the hum of the AC.
Abelard stands.
“Gentlemen,” he looks at each of us, “thank you for coming on such short notice. And for your appearance. This is a matter of utmost importance.”
He says it with the gravity of a pope, and it’s all I can do not to smirk.
“We are, as you may know, less than a week from the next Night Hunt. Traditionally, this is a time of competition, of settling old scores, of—” he glances down the table “—restoring order andguaranteeing the next generation is stable. This year, however, the stakes are considerably higher.”
Rhett leans forward, fingers steepled. “The truce with the Kings is over?”
“Not over,” Abelard says, “but… unstable. We are making overtures to ensure that our side is not seen as the instigator of further conflict. The Kings have been given assurances, and those assurances will be enforced.”
Colton’s voice is incredulous. “The runner?”
Dean Marcus cuts in. “Miss Bonaccorso is not to be harmed. Under any circumstances. The Hunt will proceed as scheduled, but it is symbolic. Demonstrative. We want to show the world that the old traditions still hold.”
Julian snorts. “A demonstration. Cute.”
Abelard gives him a look that would melt steel. “The Board expects your full participation. Any deviation from protocol will be considered a breach of contract.”
Rhett’s smile is polite, almost friendly. “And the protocols are…?”
The only woman on the Board, the one they call Madame K, unfolds a sheet of paper. “The subject—Miss Bonaccorso—will be given a head start. Thirty minutes. She will have two trackerswith her, hand-picked by her own family.” She pauses to let that sink in. “The Hunt will cover the full perimeter of the North Woods. No weapons, no outside assistance. The usual. But—and this is critical—any attempt to circumvent the safety net, or to inflict actual bodily harm, will be dealt with immediately. Mr. Ellis-Black will hunt, the Feral Boys will watch, but the claiming will be done discreetly and with care afforded to a royal bloodline.”
Her eyes sweep across us. I feel her gaze slide over my face and stop.
Dean Marcus taps the table. “In addition, we want to ensure the integrity of the Hunt. There will be observers at every checkpoint. All encounters will be monitored in real time.”
Rhett sips his water, watching them. “So we’re to play by the rules?”
“Yes,” Abelard says. “This is a ceremony. Nothing more. Her father already signed her over to Bam, the Hunt is a formality.”
Julian yawns, stretching his arms overhead. “So what’s the point? If Bam can’t actually Hunt the prize, why bother?”
Marcus looks at him with a kind of pity. “Because you are the wolves. The Hunt is your birthright. If you abdicate, you lose not just the game, but everything that comes after.”
Colton glances at me, lips barely twitching.
“Anything else?” I ask, because I know they want me to.
Abelard gives me his best parental smile. “Mr. Ellis-Black, we expect you to keep your… animalistic instincts in check. This is not a brawl. It is a contest of wit and discipline.”
I stare back, dead calm. “I never start the fight.”
