Eyes wide, she searched every shadow. Large figures prowled the grounds, pulling back branches as they hunted out prey. The thought that they were on an island, surrounded by water, filled her with crippling dread.
“Gotchya!” A man yelled, several meters away, as he pulled a tribute from the gardens and tumbled her to the cold ground.
Daisy’s heart pounded like a physical pulse in her stomach. They were flushing them out. Driving them like prey. Running them to ground like little rabbits pushed from hidey holes until they would inevitably box them in against the coast.
There was no escape.
The tribute begged as the hunter ripped off her clothes. Her words fell on deaf ears.
Timber…
She said every word except the safe word. Her pleas did nothing to slow him down as he sank his body into hers, and the bell rang again.
Daisy dropped her gaze. Frozen by their proximity and forced to wait out the encounter.
The sounds were familiar now. Deliberate footsteps. A thud. Hands scuffling. Clothing tearing. Grunts. Gasps. Whispered commands. The surrounding, chaotic noise of others as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening. Nearby laughter—lively and wrong. Zippers catching. Whimpers of defeat. Muted pleas. A harsh sob. Promises both cruel and bartering. Lies.
The sharp slice of silence sewn of shock rather than peace, as struggle shifts abruptly into surrender. Breath. A sigh of satisfaction. A yelp of resignation. Quiet detachment. Flesh slapping flesh. Fabric shifting. Earth rustling. Lungs and lips canting.
Groan. Huff. Wheeze. Catch. Hiccup. Smack. Faster. Harder. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing…
She should have kept a shoe. She could have used it as a weapon. Daisy couldn’t recall exactly what the contract said about violence, other than specifically listing several acts of aggression as permissible—for the hunters.
The tributes were given only a safe word and warnings that could lead to forfeiture.
But even the threat of a weapon would have been better than standing there defenseless.
The captured tribute continued to beg, but it only egged the hunter on. They got off on the fight, relished the struggle.
Daisy wasn’t a violent person, but this place shoved her so far beyond her comfort zone, she didn’t know what kind of person she might be by dawn.
The conquest ended as quickly as it began. Like a soldier on the last leg of an invasion, he climbed off her and gasped for breath. But he didn’t just abandon her.
Daisy watched from the shadows, surprised when he produced a small flask and offered her a sip. She struggled to sit up, and he lent her a hand, propriety ingrained by privilege returning like an unforgettable instinct he’d momentarily misplaced. She shyly accepted the flask as he lit a cigarette and offered her one. She shook her head and adjusted her dress.
In utter shock, Daisy watched as they made small talk as if the tribute weren’t just violated. Her acceptance was mind-boggling. She even laughed when the hunter made some sort of joke.
It made no sense. How could she laugh with someone who just attacked her?
It’s a game. None of it’s real.
But it was real.
The cuts on Daisy’s hands stung because they were real. The scrape on her knee burned. The fire in her lungs, the fear in her belly, the wildness of her eyes—it was all real.
She couldn’t detach from it the way others could. Lounging in the aftermath. Spent from exertion?—
Run.
Now was her chance, as the hunter languidly basked in the moonlight, smoking his cigarette.
Daisy burst out of the rose bushes, startling both the hunter and tribute, but the man only laughed and yelled something in an accent too thick for Daisy to make out.
She didn’t look back.
Cold grass slipped underfoot, forcing her to step lightly. Running without those ridiculous stilts made escaping much easier—until she stepped on something sharp.
“Ah!” Daisy hissed, hopping awkwardly, but not fully stopping. She swallowed down the urge to moan and kept moving.
