I closed my eyes as I remembered the hot slide of the black-haired hawk’s tongue through my slit, the way he’d lapped at my clit in the moment before he’d gotten to his feet.
I’d wanted more.
Jesus.
My face was tight where their blood had dried on my cheeks and forehead. What had that been about?
Trust us, it’s for your own protection.
I didn’t feel protected. I felt like an animal pinned to the ground in the jungle, open season for any creature that passed by with an appetite.
I tried to ignore the pinch of the clamps on my nipples and pussy, tried to ignore the desire sparking between my thighs. My breathing slowly returned to normal, the tunnel quiet all around me. I could almost believe I was suddenly alone, that everyone else had left, leaving me alone with the men in hawk masks.
The adrenaline seeped out of my body, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. I had no idea how much time had passed since I’d last checked, had no idea how long I’d been in the tunnels or how much time was left in the Hunt. My phone was in the pocket of my jeans, tossed aside by the one of the bird men who’d taken them off, and there was no digital clock in this stretch of tunnels.
Time felt meaningless, and my eyelids started to feel heavy, my head nodding against the stone wall until I fell into sleep.
It felt like only a second later when I woke with a start, icy water pouring from the spigots on the ceiling.
I shrieked in shock, yanked from the comforting darkness through which I’d been floating while I slept. I sputtered and coughed, turning my head to try and get away from the worst ofthe spray, closing my eyes against the onslaught while it went on and on until suddenly, as quickly as it had started, it stopped.
I gasped for breath, water streaming down my face and naked body, my hair soaked all over again. The chain was still looped around my neck, the clamps still attached to every private part of me, but now I was too wet and cold to feel anything but anger.
“Assholes!” I shouted.
My voice echoed through the tunnels, and I realized my mistake a few minutes later when the sound of approaching footsteps thudded on the dirt floor.
I’d drawn attention, and if I’d thought I was alone before, I knew now that I wasn’t.
I held my breath, expecting (hoping?) the men in hawk masks would emerge out of the darkness, but the three men who eventually appeared weren’t disguised as birds but as bulls.
Wide-set horns emerged from the top of their black masks, their eyes glinting through large eyeholes above a thick snout.
Their footsteps slowed as they approached, like they’d been out for a Sunday stroll and had happened upon an unexpected artifact. They ambled closer, the tattoos that were inked onto their bare upper bodies writhing like living shadows as they moved.
Like all of the men in masks, they were virtually featureless, even their hair hidden. I sensed the meaning behind their masks: they moved slowly and deliberately, like bulls pawing the ground right before they charged.
The one who spoke first had lean defined muscle and a shiny patch of skin — half-hidden by the tattoos on his chest — that made me think he’d been burned. “Looks like you got yourself into a pickle.”
He spoke casually, as if he were talking about the weather.
I should have been embarrassed — I was naked, chained to the walls, some kind of sex toy/torture device clamped onto my nipples and pussy — but I’d started to shake, the icy water from the sprinklers seeping into my bones.
“Poor little darlin’.” I could almost see the scowl behind the second man’s mask, and I noticed that his knuckles were scraped raw as he scratched at his neck. “They could have been gentlemen and left you a jacket at least.”
The third man had done nothing but watch, his body coiled with a predatory stillness, and I recoiled when he finally stepped closer.
I had no idea what to expect from any of the deranged men hunting us in the tunnels. I had a reason for being here — so did all the girls — but it was beginning to occur to me that the men were here just for the fun of it.
What did that say about them?
“Who marked you?” The third bull dropped his gaze to the silver collar around my neck. “Who claimed you?”
I remembered the glint of the knife, the hot smear of blood on my face, the shine of ownership in the eyes of the men who’d chained me to the wall. “The bird men.”
“Hawks.” Burn Scar spit lazily onto the floor. “Fucking figures.”
The guy with the scraped knuckles unzipped his jeans.
