It’s not Colton. I know his voice, the edges of it, the way it cuts. This is older, smoother. It makes my skin crawl.
“If I catch you before my son, maybe I’ll make you mine. Consider it a repayment since my runner failed me.”
I move, following the creek upstream, crouched low, half in the water. Every step is a risk—one slip, one noise, and he’ll have me.
I pick up the pace, risking speed for distance. The creek winds tight, curving behind a stand of old pines. I use them as cover, slipping between the trunks, trying not to pant too loud.
Ahead, the old mill. It’s just a ruin, three walls and a crumbling chimney, but it’s shelter. Maybe a place to hide.
I make it to the wall, collapse against the cold stone, and listen.
Footsteps, everywhere. Some far, some close. The sound of the quad engine is loud as the cameraman shouts that he doesn’t have an angle.
I bite my lip to keep from whimpering. I press my back to the stone, heartbeat so loud it drowns the rest. I’m shaking, legs numb and useless.
Sunrise. I just need to make it until sunrise.
The thought stops me short.
If I make it to sunrise, then I am considered the winner.
But that also means…
My prize is death.
Chapter 14: Colton
TheysaytheHuntis tradition, but there is nothing old or sacred about the need in my body. It’s animal. The rest is just pageantry.
I stand in the trees and let her scent collect on my tongue. Finding her won’t be difficult. She’s always been a bright shape against a world that wants to grind her to bone.
I could chase her now. I want to. But there’s a rightness to the way the forest goes quiet, the way the audience leans forward, as if they want her to fail. I wait, let the moment ripen.
When the horn sounds again, I move.
The ground is slippery and I’m glad I had the foresight to get her shoes. I count every step, catalog every movement, every mark she leaves behind. She runs straight through, taking a path at the fork that will lead her to the river. She doesn’t know that the wind betrays her, that the trees are my confessional and she is the only sin I haven’t confessed.
I clear the first hundred meters before she’s even made the creek. Her print in the mud is sharp, the toes digging in, the arch of her foot familiar. She ditched the flower crown. I find it smashed against a log, petals already turning to pulp. I step over it. She never wanted it, never wanted any of this. Doesn’t matter. They don’t let you say no here.
There’s a quad on the path behind me. I hear the engine, the way the wheels tear up the undergrowth. They’re not hunting. They’re here to witness. To record.
The moon is bright, but the forest eats the light. I don’t need it. My eyes adjust, pupils blown wide. Every sense is on edge, tuned to her.
She’s fast, but not faster than me.
There’s movement to my left, a flash of black between the trees. Probably one of the Boys. No way the Funders will come out this deep. I keep my course steady. I know the old mill is north and east, that she will aim for shelter when her lungs start to burn. I know she’s already tired—her endurance is good, but she runs hot, burns through the glycogen fast, always has. She’s built for endurance, not sprinting and she’s going to tire herself early.
I hear her before I see her. The breath is wet, shaky. The fabric of the dress drags against the brush. When she hits the creek she stumbles, lands hard on one knee, but gets up fast, hiding under a fallen log. Someone is talking to her and she’s scared, but then she keeps going, taking off towards the mill.
I track her upstream, keeping low. Every time she slows, I slow. Every time she looks over her shoulder, I duck behind a trunk, let her see nothing but the empty dark.
She loses the trail as it thins out and picks the thicker brush. I smile. It’s the choice I would have made.
There’s blood on her ankle, from a branch or maybe a stone. She ignores it, keeps moving. The dress is already filthy, torn at the thigh, streaked with mud and old leaf. She’s beautiful like this. Raw. Real. Like a wound that never scabbed over.
At the bend, she stops. I hear the scrape of her hand on bark, the rasp of her breath. She’s listening for me. I freeze, even my lungs on hold. The Academy is far behind now. It’s just us, and the old rules.
She waits, but not long. She’s not patient. She’s never been patient.
