He wasn’t like Peter. This was more than a game to him. And he wasn’t like the doctor who thought himself so godlike he felt entitled to brazenly break the rules. No, Hadrian was different. This was personal. He was the kind of man who liked using women, but deep down, he hated them.
If she begged, he’d get off on it. If she ran, he’d toy with her like a cat tortures a mouse. The green glow ahead called to her like sweet salvation, but he wasn’t going to let her get there.
“Shall I tell you how this will go?”
She looked up at him, still walking toward the green light, but said nothing.
“I’m going to have you,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Once something’s in my mind, I don’t stop until I succeed—whatever the goal, whatever the cost.”
The path forked ahead, and Daisy didn’t have time to hesitate. Eyes on the green lanterns, she veered right, because that seemed the right way to the safe zone.
“You’re quiet. I appreciate that—to a point. But you won’t be quiet for long.”
A bell tolled far in the distance.
There were still hours until dawn, and he had plenty of other options, but Hadrian Welles was a man of specific taste. He liked rare things. A dish that cost a fortune would always taste better than one that did not, even if the ingredients and recipe were identical. He liked labels, and she’d been saddled with one he couldn’t resist.
Every word out of his mouth was polished venom. She bet he rehearsed every controlled line he used. No part of her believed she was the first to hear this specific speech.
He was waiting for a response, whether he admitted it or not. Men like Hadrian did not like being dismissed, and he’d only tolerate her indifference for so long.
“Is this your first Feast?” she asked, wisely keeping the focus on him.
“Fourth.”
“How…How many have there been?”
“I was one of the first.”
Then why didn’t he give her an exact number? “Do you know who J.T. is?”
“Who?” He matched her steps. “Never heard of him, so he’s probably not anyone important.”
How could that be when J.T. had been the one corresponding with her from the beginning? “I think he runs The Feast of the Fallen. I thought someone as important as you would know him.”
He narrowed his eyes. “The Volkovs host the hunt. Whoever told you any other name told you a lie.”
“Oh.” Irritation rolled off him in waves.
He didn’t enjoy having his authority or influence questioned.
Daisy was getting a better picture of him now. This “hunt,” as he called it, wasn’t about sex for him. It was about submission and destruction. He needed others to acknowledge his superiority.
“You must be really important if you know the hosts.”
“I’m a Welles. Fifth-generation. There isn’t a door my name won’t open.”
That was a lie. How she—a nobody—could tell, she wasn’t sure, but the more he spoke, the more his façade showed cracks. Here, he was a hunter, a man of ultimate power and privilege. But outside of this game, he was just a suit with his daddy’s name, she bet. He liked the feast because taking was an easy way to prove his worth to others.
Women were likely mirrors to him. He saw his dominance reflected in their fear.
Daisy swallowed, unable to see a way out of this and certain he would make it unpleasant. He didn’t want to just capture her. He wanted to break her.
She could run.
She could try to escape.
She could fight.
