The NDA. The secrecy. The flight. She didn’t even know where the fuck she was.
She couldn’t breathe.
They were going to die on this island, and no one would ever find whatever was left of them come dawn.
Aunt Vanessa stepped onto the landing. “Good evening, hunters?—”
A wild roar swallowed the rest of her words as Daisy’s heartbeat boomed like thunder in her ears. The sound sharpened to a piercing whistle only Daisy could hear.
The first tribute descended, and the hunter’s heads turned in unison, tracking her movement like wolves trailing a deer emerging from a tree line.
Applause rippled through the crowd, disrupting the piercing whistle in Daisy’s head. Aunt V announced the next number. Closer and closer, Daisy moved to the landing.
Scattered applause and cheers. Focused and rowdy. Thumping fists and crude cat calls. Daisy’s stomach turned.
One by one, the tributes descended into the unknown. Tagged and numbered like livestock. Appraised.
Hungry eyes. Licking lips. Their energy was palpable and as dangerous as a tempting flame. The applause grew in intensity, vibrating the floors and walls. The more tributes presented, the more the hunters wanted.
“Tribute 1922.”
Daisy’s legs refused to move.
Aunt Vanessa looked back, her insistent eyes urging her to move. “Tribute 1922.”
Someone nudged Daisy from behind, and she stumbled forward, catching herself on the banister as she stared over the ledge as if looking out at her death. Heat flooded her cheeks as her knees shook beneath her dress.
Slick hands. Cold skin. And that damn ringing in her ears. They roared and clapped, calling her like a dog.
The staircase stretched before her like a gauntlet.
Aunt V smiled and reached out a hand, too far to touch her, but somehow coaxing her down. She descended, one step at a time, into the pit of rabid masked men.
The applause erupted when she reached the landing, crashing like a cold wave over her chilled skin. Too loud. Too eager. Masks turned, eyes glittering behind elaborate disguises. Hands slammed together with deliberate force. They were all looking at her.
One man, in a plum tuxedo, clapped slower than all the rest, his gaze fixed deliberately on her, like a hook sinking into her skin.
The roar was unbearable. A physical force, a current, that beat her back like a boat against the shore. When she reached the ballroom floor, it was like stepping onto water. Her eyes played tricks on her, and her legs were unsure. Heart hammering hard enough to make her molars rattle, she rushed toward the growing line of tributes along the wall.
Only then did their heads turn back to the landing. All but one. The man in the purple suit continued to stare at her, his mouth slowly curving in a promising grin.
Daisy dropped her gaze, but breaking eye contact did nothing to shake the feeling that she’d just been marked.
Maggie arrived moments later, taking her place along the wall. She wished they were next to each other. Wished she could take her hand.
When the final tribute descended, Aunt Vanessa reclaimed the center of the landing, radiant and commanding. “Hunters!” She drew their attention like a sorceress casting a spell. “As is tradition and your privileged right, you may now select your partner for the opening dance.”
Are we dancing?
The hunters moved, pouring toward the tributes like a tide, some striding with purpose toward specific targets, others prowling the selection with predatory consideration. The first contact came like a crash of power over stillness, unmooring any sense of safety and order as tributes were hurled out of line in a swirl of dark suits and desperate gowns.
Daisy instinctively stepped back, pressing herself against the wall, hoping to make herself small. But he never lost sight of her. Closer and closer, spreading like a dark bruise, the man in the plum suit materialized like smoke.
“Hello.”
She couldn’t talk. Up close, he was tall and polished, every inch of him curated for intimidation. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Gym-trained but not rugged. Manicured hands. Perfect posture. His mask was silver and elaborate, but it couldn’t hide the cold calculation in his eyes. The scent of danger clung to him like cologne.
“I said hello, 1922.” His voice was smooth, his words methodical, his cadence educated. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” He chose words like currency.
