“This is fucking pointless,” I mutter, tugging at my tie as we step into Obsidian, the Blackwoods’ newest nightclub. The place reeks of money—all sleek black surfaces and strategically placed lighting that creates shadows perfect for both seduction and surveillance.

Ace moves through the crowd, ignoring the admiring glances thrown our way. I follow, shoulders tense, bristling when a drunk socialite brushes against me. My patience for these high-profile events wears thinner each time Knox Blackwood summons us to make an appearance.

“Three hours, tops,” Ace says, signaling the bartender, who immediately abandons other customers to serve us first. “Our presence noted, Knox satisfied, then we focus on tomorrow’s hunt.”

I down my whiskey in one burning swallow. “Could’ve spent this time learning her routine instead.”

“We are.” Ace nods toward the stage where technicians adjust the lighting. “Keira Valentino. Featured performer tonight.”

My glass freezes halfway to the bartender. “Here? Tonight?” A surge of adrenaline hits my system, that familiar predatory anticipation tightening my muscles. “Why didn’t you⁠—”

“Surprise.” The corner of Ace’s mouth quirks up. “Thought you might appreciate seeing our prey in her natural habitat before tomorrow.”

The lights dim, conversations hush, and a single spotlight illuminates the empty stage. The opening notes of a haunting melody fill the room as Keira Valentino steps into the light.

Holy fuck.

The footage didn’t capture this—the electric presence, the way she seems to absorb the spotlight rather than merely stand in it. There are five other dancers with her, but they pale in comparison. Her body moves with liquid precision, each gesture deliberate yet spontaneous. The crowd fades to nothing as I watch her dance, my entire focus narrowing to her form.

Beside me, Ace has gone still. I recognize that stillness—the absolute cessation of movement that happens when something unexpected has claimed his full attention. His glass hangs suspended between counter and lips, forgotten.

Her dance tells a story of pursuit and evasion, of hunger and resistance. Each movement carries weight, intention. When she locks eyes with the audience, something primal slides beneath my skin. For one disorienting moment, it feels like she’s looking directly at us—through us.

Keira commands the stage as if she were born for it, her body telling stories without words. I tear my gaze from her just long enough to glance at my twin.

Ace hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked. His breathing has slowed to that measured pace I recognize—the one that means his mind is working at full capacity. His eyes track her every movement, most likely cataloging details most wouldn’t notice. The slight favor she gives her right ankle. The controlled breathing pattern. The almost imperceptible hesitation before each dramatic extension.

“Perfect control with deliberate moments of abandon,” he murmurs, so quietly I barely catch it. “Watch how she dictates the audience’s reaction—building anticipation, then withholding, creating hunger.” His fingers tap against his glass in rhythm with her movements. “She’s calculating every effect.”

But I’m barely processing his words because something else is happening to me. My heart pounds against my ribs, blood rushing in my ears. Her dance isn’t just impressive—it’s fucking hypnotic. Each movement sends electricity straight through me.

When she locks eyes with the crowd again, I swear to God she’s staring right at me. My grip tightens on my glass instinctively, and I hear the crack before I feel it. Whiskey spills over my fingers as the tumbler splits, a jagged line running from rim to base.

“Easy,” Ace warns, sliding a napkin toward me.

But there’s nothing easy about this. My skin feels too tight, too hot. I’ve hunted dozens of women through the years, felt the thrill of anticipation, but never this—this instant, consuming hunger that makes me want to vault onto that stage and claim her right now, Hunt be damned.

“She’s…” I can’t even finish the sentence.

Ace shifts beside me, his movement almost imperceptible to anyone else, but I feel it like a sudden current between us. His attention breaks from the stage for the first time since Keira appeared, eyes finding mine in the darkness.

I know that look. It’s the same one we’ve shared on countless jobs, missions, and hunts. But this time it’s charged with something beyond our usual silent communication. His pupils have dilated, the only tell that his calculated exterior is cracking.

For a split second, we’re perfectly aligned, as we’ve always been. Two bodies, one purpose.

Blood drips from my finger where the broken glass cut me, but I don’t feel it. All I feel is the visceral certainty passing between us.

She’s ours.

Not mine. Not his. Ours.

The thought hits with such clarity that I almost laugh. Of course. It’s always been this way—what’s his is mine, what’s mine is his. We’ve shared everything since before we could speak. Why would this be any different?

But it is different. The intensity of wanting her—this woman who moves like liquid fire on stage—transcends our usual arrangements. This isn’t just about the Hunt anymore. This isn’t just about the next seventy-two hours.

Ace gives me an almost imperceptible nod, confirming what we both already know. The contract, the rules, the temporary nature of the Hunt—they’ve become irrelevant background noise. We’ve made our decision before the game has even begun.

On stage, Keira executes a perfect spin that brings her to her knees, arms extended in supplication that transforms into defiance as she rises again. Unaware that her fate has just been sealed in the shadows by two men she hasn’t even met.

The music builds toward its climax, and I feel my heart pound in rhythm with it. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. The music fades, and applause erupts around us. Keira takes a final bow, her chest rising and falling with exertion, sweat glistening on her skin. I’m still rooted to the spot, my hand bleeding slightly from the broken glass.

Ace leans in, his mouth close to my ear. “We should introduce ourselves.”

I turn to him, eyebrows raised. “What happened to keeping our distance before the Hunt?”

“Plans change.” He dabs at my cut with a napkin, eyes never leaving the stage where Keira is accepting flowers from an admirer. “Think about it. If we meet her tonight as random club patrons, imagine her surprise tomorrow when we appear in our masks.”

A slow grin spreads across my face. “Psychological advantage. I like it.”

“She won’t know we’re hunters until it’s too late.” Ace straightens his already perfect tie. “No mention of the Hunt. Just two brothers appreciating a talented performer.”

He’s right. The thought of seeing recognition dawn in those eyes tomorrow, watching shock replace familiarity when she realizes who we are… my blood heats at the prospect.

“Follow my lead,” Ace says, already moving through the crowd toward the backstage area with that effortless authority that parts bodies before him like water.

We approach the security guard blocking the hallway to the dressing rooms. The man straightens when he sees us.

“Knox Blackwood sent us to personally congratulate Ms. Valentino on her performance,” Ace says, his voice smooth as silk.

The guard hesitates, then nods, stepping aside. That’s the power of the Blackwood name.

Anticipation coils in my gut as we approach her dressing room. I catch Ace’s eye, and there’s that shared electricity again, that perfect alignment of purpose.

“Remember,” he murmurs, “we’re just admirers tonight. The real game starts tomorrow.”

I nod, forcing my body to relax, to assume the casual posture of a club-goer rather than a predator.

Ace knocks twice on her dressing room door. The sound of movement pauses inside before a cautious voice calls out, “Who is it?”

“Admirers,” Ace answers smoothly. “Knox Blackwood asked us to personally congratulate you on tonight’s performance.”

The door opens partially, and there she stands—even more stunning up close. Sweat still glistens on her collarbones, and she’s changed into a loose black tank top that clings to her stunning frame. Her violet-blue eyes widen slightly as they take in the two of us.

“Both of you know Knox?” she asks, skepticism edging her voice.

“Colleagues,” I say, pushing the door wider before she can protest. “I’m Cyrus. This is my brother Ace.”

She steps back, creating distance as we enter her space.

“Your performance was captivating,” Ace says, circling toward her makeup table while I lean against the door frame, effectively blocking her exit. “You have extraordinary control.”

“Thanks.” Her eyes dart between us. “I don’t usually get personal visits from my employer’s colleagues.”

I move closer, drawn like a magnet. My fingers reach out, almost of their own accord, brushing against her bare shoulder. She flinches, stepping back.

“Sorry,” I say, not feeling sorry at all. “Your form is impressive.”

Her eyes narrow. “I appreciate the compliment, but I need to finish changing.”

Ace appears behind her, close enough that she startles when she backs into him.

“We don’t want to keep you,” he says, his hand settling briefly on her waist before she twists away.

I catch the scent of her—perfume, and something uniquely her—that sends blood rushing through my veins.

She edges toward the adjoining bathroom. “Well, thank Knox for sending his congratulations. I really need to⁠—”

“Of course,” Ace cuts in smoothly, touching her arm as he passes. “We’ve taken enough of your time.”

Her body tenses at his touch, jaw tightening. “Right.”

I can’t resist trailing my fingers along her dressing table, picking up a hairpin. “Beautiful performance, Keira. Truly unforgettable.”

Relief crosses her face as we finally move toward the door, but I catch her shiver when I use her name.

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