“Buenos Aires, yes. The ports. The conventillos.” Jack swirled his drink, watching the amber catch the candlelight. “It was born in the slums, among immigrants and dockworkers. Men who had nothing but their bodies and their pride.”
“Fascinating,” Hadrian said flatly. “And this matters because…?”
“Because the tango wasn’t danced with women. Not at first.” Jack let the implication sink in. “It was danced between men. Compadritos, they called themselves.”
The men around Hadrian exchanged glances.
“It was a display of dominance,” Jack continued. “A duel without blades. The lead controls every movement, every breath. They must command complete surrender without words, or the entire dance falls apart. Historically, it’s how men established hierarchy. How they expressed who held power and who submitted to it.” He took a slow sip. “The brothels adopted it later. Then the upper classes, once they’d sanitized it enough for polite company. But at its core, the tango has always been about one thing.”
“And what’s that?” Hadrian asked, his tone caught between irritation and reluctant interest.
“Control.” Jack smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes.
Several men nodded, digesting this new knowledge, but Hadrian only narrowed his eyes.
Jack gestured toward the grand staircase with his glass. “So when the tributes make their debut tonight, and the dance begins, rest in the knowledge that you’re participating in an ancient pursuit of surrender, started here, but played out across two hundred acres until dawn.”
A beat of silence.
Then Hadrian laughed, a sharp bark that broke the tension. “Christ, Thorne. You could bore a woman to death before you ever get your dick wet.” He turned to his companions with a smirk. “Fuck all that performance shit. Give me a working-class girl with daddy issues, and I’ll fuck her like a sailor on leave ‘til the sun comes up.” His grin turned wolfish. “I’m craving hot cherry pie tonight, boys. Virgin’s on the menu, and I intend to sample as many as I can.”
The men around him laughed.
Jack’s expression didn’t change, but he caught Ash Volkov observing nearby, jaw tight, a glass of vodka in his hand, and a look of undisguised contempt in his eyes.
Jack inclined his head a fraction.
One day, Hadrian Welles would learn just how long Jack’s memory was. Every word spoken in this room was remembered. Every cruelty catalogued. Every violation noted. His reckoning would inevitably come. Jack just had to wait for the right opportunity to appear.
A sharp whistle cut through the hall, silencing the chatter like a blade through flesh.
Hunter Volkov stood at the top of the grand staircase. His enormous shadow cascaded down the stairs. The eldest Volkov brother was not merely tall. He was built to survive wars and designed to cause them.
His immaculate tuxedo did nothing to civilize him. Scars covered his knuckles and face, disappearing beneath his collar and cuffs. Dark hair swept back, exposing his sharp eyes as they swept the room with the flat assessment of a predator counting prey.
He did not smile. “Listen up.” His voice was gravel and broken glass, a growl that carried effortlessly to every corner. “I’m only saying this once.”
The hall fell utterly silent as every hunter wisely decided not to move. Even Hadrian had the sense to shut up and stand still.
“You’re here by invitation.” Hunter descended three steps, his dark presence overshadowing the space like a thundercloud. “That invitation can be rescinded at any time, for any reason, at the Host’s sole discretion. Understood?”
No one spoke.
“Good.” He clasped his enormous hand on the banister. “The rules are simple. The safeword is timber. If a tribute can’t speak, they sign the letter T. When you hear it or see it, you stop. Immediately. No exceptions. No interpretations. No pretending you didn’t notice.”
His gaze swept the room, landing briefly on Hadrian before moving on.
“The Feast is theater, not cruelty. There is a difference, and if you can’t understand that difference, you don’t belong here.” Hunter took another step, his thick Russian accent delivering orders with clipped clarity. “No permanent damage. No broken bones. No broken skin. No marks that don’t fade within a week. You, along with every tribute, signed a contract to be here. Those limits are not suggestions. They are law.”
Someone shifted uncomfortably near the bar, drawing Hunter’s sharp gaze. “Question?”
The man shook his head.
“Consent can be withdrawn at any time,” Hunter continued, his voice dropping a degree, making it all the more terrifying. “A clear ‘no,’ ‘nyet,’ or ‘stop’ may not end a scene, but the safeword always does. If a tribute uses their safeword and you do not stop, you will be removed from the grounds immediately, banned from all future events, and subject to whatever consequences your Host deems appropriate. And I promise you,” he added, “the Host’s imagination for consequences is extensive. Are we clear, comrades?”
A murmur of understanding rolled from the crowd.
“The hunt begins at sunset and ends at sunrise. The bells will sound both times, for a solid minute—not to be confused with the single bell toll, which will mark each unique conquer. Any hunter still engaged with a tribute after the final bells will be considered in violation.” Hunter paused and glared at the men, a wall of scarred muscle that could kill every last one before they knew what was happening. “I know how men get when the blood is up, and the mask is on. Consider this your only warning.” He cracked his neck, the click sharp as a gunshot. “You are in Volkov territory now. We see everything. Break our rules, and we will find you.” His lips curved into a challenging threat. “The tributes are under our protection, more valuable than any of you. Treat them accordingly.”
