“Tribute 1942. A doe. Hunter was Marcus Castellan, a second-time guest. I’ve sent you a clip of the feed.”
“What was the situation?”
“The encounter occurred in the south gardens, near the reflecting pool.” Cole’s voice was flat and professional. “She signaled approximately six minutes ago. Security responded within forty seconds. She’s currently at Safe Zone Three, awaiting transport.”
“Injuries?”
“None visible. The medic checked her over. She’s shaken but appears physically unharmed.”
“And Castellan?”
“Cooperative. Stopped immediately upon the signal. He’s been sequestered for standard questioning.”
Jack cued up the footage.
The screen showed a cabana. Silk curtains. Cushions. Torches flickering nearby. Castellan had the tribute on her stomach, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades while the other adjusted himself.
The tribute’s face turned toward the camera—young, pretty. Castellan shifted his position, tilting her pelvis, and Jack understood immediately what he intended. The tribute’s eyes squeezed shut beneath her mask, then flew open.
Her thumb moved—that small, desperate sign that signaled the letter T as her mouth called out the safeword, “Timber!”
Jack’s hand tightened on the tablet.
Castellan froze.
The doe wasn’t crying. Not yet. But she was obviously scared. The hunter followed every rule, lifting his hands and giving her space to pull away. She scrambled forward, noticeably trembling.
Everyone had their limits.
His hand faintly trembled as he cut off the video. “Protocols were followed?”
“To the letter. Castellan’s been cooperative, and the tribute hasn’t expressed any interest in seeing him penalized.”
That was because most tributes didn’t realize they had such rights. “The footage confirms he stopped the moment she signaled.”
“Yes, sir. No anal penetration occurred. No violation.”
He arched a brow. “Vaginal?”
Cole nodded. “A fair conquest. The bells tolled about five minutes prior.”
Jack set the phone aside. “See that she’s comfortable and has everything she needs as she waits for transport home. Send for the chopper.”
“And how would you like to handle her payout? She was conquered before she forfeited.”
“She shouldn’t be punished for protecting herself.” Jack’s voice was flat and final. “See that she’s compensated in full—two million pounds.”
“Understood.”
“And put Dr. Kawanja on the flight home with her.”
“The shrink?”
“She shouldn’t be alone right now. Make sure Kawanja understands this isn’t optional—she stays with the tribute until she lands. Have her arrange any follow-up appointments needed and bill it to the Feast’s discretionary fund.”
Cole nodded, making a note on his tablet. “I’ll see to it personally. Anything else?”
Jack hesitated. The question rose unbidden, pushing against his teeth before he could stop it. “Tribute 1922. Silver dress, blonde hair. Has she been conquered?”
