Daisy clawed at his wrist, shredding soft skin beneath her raking nails. He didn’t flinch.
“Get off me!” Her voice snapped like a whip as she battled to suck in air.
His hand cracked across her face. The back of her skull struck the wall, and light splintered across her vision. Her knees buckled, and before she could catch herself, his full weight slammed into her, driving her to the floor.
Carpet burned against her shoulder blades as he pinned her down. His knee drove between her thighs, forcing them apart while one hand clamped over her mouth and the other grabbed her breast, ripping it from the lace and squeezing until she screamed against his palm.
She bit his hand as hard as she could, and his nails dragged down her chest, raking from collarbone to stomach.
“Fucking bitch!” He snapped, pulling back his hand long enough for her to scream. “Who do you think you are?”
He yanked his hand back and hit her again with his fist this time. The impact snapped her head sideways. Daisy tasted blood, unsure if it was hers or his.
“Stupid bitch.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and slammed the back of her skull against the floor. “Hold still.”
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. The carpet burned. His weight crushed the breath out of her lungs. Cold air scorched her exposed chest. His hand shoved between their bodies as fabric tore.
A sob ripped from her chest as she tried to shove him off. Her thumbs slipped up his face, pressing hard into his eyes.
“No!” The word erupted, raw and ragged, bouncing off the walls of the empty corridor where no one remained to hear it.
His belt buckle scraped against her inner thigh. She thrashed beneath him, but he was too heavy, too strong. He caught her hands. His forearm pressed across her throat, compressing her airway until the edges of her vision darkened.
He forced her legs open. This wasn’t desire. It was destruction.
The hard, blunt weight of him pushed against her thigh, and Daisy screamed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Nature of the Beast
“Daisy!” A tribute yelled from across the great hall.
Daisy’s face transformed as recognition sparked in her eyes. “Maggie!” The name left her lips with the desperate relief of someone finding land after days at sea.
A dark-haired woman in a muddied dress rushed out of the thinning crowd. They collided in a fierce embrace. Their laughter cut through the low hum of the emptying ballroom, and something loosened in Jack’s chest.
She had someone. Good. She would need people in her life who understood fragments of this night in ways others never could.
“A word?”
Jack turned. Ash Volkov stood a few meters away, hands clasped behind his back, his tuxedo still immaculate despite the carnage around them. Hunter loomed just beyond, arms folded across his barrel chest, his scarred knuckles wrapped around a glass of vodka he didn’t appear to be drinking so much as brandishing.
Jack’s hand slipped from Daisy’s back as he stepped toward the brothers, her attention momentarily pulled to her friend.
“Gentlemen,” Jack nodded, giving them his divided attention.
“Congratulations are in order,” Ash said, his voice deceptively mild beneath the sharp edges of his accent. “Another successful Feast. For the most part.”
Hunter grunted. The qualifier hung between them like smoke.
“The tributes seem satisfied,” Ash continued, ignoring his brother. “Early numbers suggest this may be the highest grossing year yet.”
Jack’s gaze drifted across the wreckage of the ballroom. Overturned glasses. Trampled flowers browning at the edges. Napkins ground into marble like confetti from a parade no one asked for. The chandelier light exposed everything the evening tried to conceal. Stains on tablecloths. Scuff marks gouged into the floor. The faint, sweet rot of champagne pooling in places no one bothered to mop. The morning after always told the truth the party tried to bury.
“I expect you’ll want to hold the date for next year?” Ash asked.
Jack hesitated. He thought of Daisy’s words but also Hadrian Welles. The Feast only worked if the hunters respected the rules of the game. And every year, the line between theatre and cruelty thinned.
