“Don’t tense up,” he murmurs.
I almost laugh. “Easier said than done.”
Closing my eyes under the blindfold, I remember that I asked for this.
His thumb draws a circle on my skin, slow, and my muscles unclench, just a little.
We drive for what feels like an hour or a hundred. At some point I drift off, or maybe I just get lost inside my head, because the next thing I know the car is rolling to a stop and his hand is at my jaw, tilting my face toward his voice.
“Stay put.”
I obey, because I want to. I want to see what comes next.
The door opens, wind slicing through the warmth. He circles to my side, his steps making no noise. I hear the click of the seatbelt, feel the tug as he releases me. The blindfold stays on.
He lifts me out of the car. I expect the ground to be cold but it isn’t—it’s soft, a cushion of moss or thick grass, and the smell of pine is so strong I almost choke on it. We’re in a forest. I can tell by the sound, the air, the way nothing echoes. A tree is just steps away, the bark rough against the back of my hand as he guides me forward.
My bare feet tingle with each step. The world is alive under me: twigs, loam, the spongy rot of leaves. The sounds are different here—no distant cars, no hum of power lines, just the wind and the creak of old wood. Somewhere an owl calls, and I startle, giggle, then clamp my mouth shut.
“Almost there,” Julian says.
His voice is calm, but there’s a tension behind it, the low hum of someone holding in a secret. He leads me farther, each step careful, like he’s worried I’ll trip or run. I could, if I wanted. I could bolt.
He’d like that.
But I don’t run yet. I follow, blind, and the darkness gets lighter—not brighter, but thinner, like the air has more space. We stop.
He lets go of my hand, then tucks a finger under the blindfold. He tugs it up, slow.
Light explodes. Moonlight, cold and pure, flooding everything in light. The trees pull back into a perfect circle, a clearing with a floor of grass so thick it glows in the dark. I blink, eyesadjusting, and then I see myself: I am in a dress, white and thin, the hem brushing my knees. He had me blind folded when he put it on, but it fits like it was sewn for me. My arms are bare, my collarbones sharp. There are flowers in my hair—tiny white blooms, woven into a crown.
I see Julian across from me, standing at the edge of the clearing. He’s wearing all black, hair slicked back, his eyes eating up the light. He’s looking at me like I am the only thing in the universe, and for a minute I am.
He circles the edge, never breaking eye contact. When he reaches me, he stops. He’s so close I can see every pore, every freckle under the harsh blue light.
He leans in, lips grazing my ear. “Such a good girl for me.” Kissing me first, he steps back and waits.
I realize, after a long moment, that I’m supposed to run. Not because I’m prey, but because I want to be chased.
It hits me—the difference. The first Hunt was their ritual, their game, their way to break me. This one is mine.
I step forward, grass slick beneath my feet, the chill biting my skin but not hurting. My heart beats so hard I can hear it in my head. I look back once, then take off into the woods, white dress blurring behind me.
This is my ritual. My rebirth.
I run.
I’ve never been this alive.
There is no trail, just the freedom of the run and the feel of his gaze still hot on my back. The woods are thick and tangled, every tree trunk waiting to trip me, every limb a snare. I don’t care. I don’t care about the cuts on my arms or the way the dress is already ruined. I don’t care that I’m running blind into a dark I barely understand.
All I care about is the sound behind me.
At first it’s nothing—just my own pulse, the drumline of my heart, the wheeze of my lungs as I gulp air so rapidly it scrapes the inside of my chest raw. But after a while I hear more: a footstep, the deliberate crack of a stick, a rustle just out of sync with the wind. He’s not running, not yet, but he’s moving, and I can feel him getting closer every second.
I try to pick up speed but I’m already at my limit. I stumble over a root, catch myself, and break into a sprint that shreds the last of the dress from my legs. I’m sure I look insane: hair wild, flower crown askew, skin streaked with mud and blood. I wish I could see myself through his eyes.
I want to know if he likes the mess I’ve become.
