I glance at Cora, noting the way her chest rises and falls in peaceful rhythm. The marks we left blend with her father’s cruelty on her skin—a fucked-up canvas of abuse.
“Ryder.” Dominic’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “We need to go.”
I nod mechanically but can’t tear my eyes away. “Yeah, I know.”
“You’ve done this before,” Liam says. “We all have.”
“I’m aware,” I mutter, forcing myself to stand. My muscles protest after hours of exertion. “Just feels different this time.”
And it does. Usually, by this point in the Hunt, I’m ready for a shower, ready to wash away the sweat and fluids, ready for the ceremonial aspects that close things out. The women I’ve claimed in previous Hunts were conquests—fun for the event, sometimes fun for a few months after if I exercised my claim, but never anything that made my chest ache like this.
Dominic places a hand on my shoulder. “She’ll be taken care of. You know the protocol.”
“She’ll be at the baths once we’re done, ready for us to bathe her,” Liam adds.
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by my own reaction. “I know how it works. I just—” I cut myself off, unable to verbalize what I’m feeling.
As we begin to walk away, I look back one more time at Cora lying in the center of the room. She’s curled into herself now, with one arm tucked under her head like a child. Vulnerable. Trusting. Even in her sleep, she looks fucking beautiful.
What started to hurt her father has transformed into a feeling that makes my chest feel tight, like I can’t get enough air. It makes me want to crawl back across the room, wrap myself around her, and tell anyone who tries to separate us to go fuck themselves.
“Ryder. Let’s go.” Dominic’s voice has that edge to it now.
I force myself to turn away, falling in step behind him and Liam.
The thing about gambling is you sometimes place a bet expecting one outcome and get blindsided by another. I came here thinking I was going to break this girl—instead, she’s somehow broken something in me.
And I’m not entirely sure I want it fixed.
18
CORA
Idrift in and out of consciousness, my body too exhausted to maintain full awareness. The Orgy Room smells like sex, sweat, and cologne mixed with our combined releases. My muscles ache in ways I’ve never experienced, a full-body soreness that reminds me exactly what those three men have done to me over the past forty-seven hours.
Somewhere in the fog of my exhaustion, I hear a voice. Distant. Clinical. Speaking about phases and claiming and baths.
“...final phase of the Hollow’s Hunt begins...”
I try to focus, but my eyelids feel weighted with lead. The words wash over me like water, meaningful but somehow disconnected from reality. My mind is too foggy to process what comes after the orgy room. Is this the end? Does the Hunt conclude here?
“...The Claiming Baths await...”
Claiming. The word penetrates my haze. The word should terrify me, but instead it sends a strange flutter through my chest.
I force my eyes open, squinting against the dim red lighting. A woman in elegant black stands at the edge of our alcove, hersilver hair pinned back with geometric precision. She’s saying something about oils and towels and robes, her voice carrying the weight of ceremonial importance.
My vision sharpens as I watch her gesture to attendants carrying vessels that shimmer in the low light.
“...Each hunter privately bathes their prey. It is tradition. It is an honor. It is the possession of their spoils of the Hunt made sacred...”
The words are beautiful and disturbing in equal measure. Spoils. Like I’m war booty to be claimed and displayed. Yet the way she speaks makes it sound like something sacred.
I blink, trying to clear the fog from my mind. Around me, the other women are beginning to stir. My eyes dart across the massive orgy room, searching for the familiar face I desperately need to see.
There.
Mira.
