After the twins had left my dressing room, I’d sat at my mirror for a long time, staring at my own reflection like it might offer some kind of answer. I couldn’t even pinpoint what it was exactly — just that something had been off about them. The way they’d looked at me. Too still, too focused, like I was something they’d already decided on without bothering to consult me. It had made my skin prickle in a way I didn’t entirely trust, because underneath the unease had been something else entirely. Something I’d scrubbed at in the shower and still hadn’t managed to wash away.

I’d told myself it was just nerves about the Hunt. The strangeness of the evening catching up with me.

I still wasn’t sure I believed that.

Getting ready had felt like preparing for the most important performance of my life, except I hadn’t known the choreography. I’d dressed carefully, turned the invitation over in my hands more than once — the heavy card stock, the wax seal, the address printed in clean, deliberate ink. It had felt like a contract. Maybe it was.

The journey to the venue had done nothing to settle my nerves. If anything, pulling up to those iron gates, handing over the invite to the stone-faced attendant waiting at the entrance, had made everything unbearably real.

And now I sit here, in a waiting room with crimson walls that feel like they’re closing in with each passing minute, my fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against my thigh that betrays me despite years of performance training.

“Breathe through the fear,” I whisper to myself, the mantra I’ve used since my first major performance. “Use it.”

I glance around at the other women. Bianca, the artist with wary eyes, keeps adjusting her position on the velvet couch, unable to find comfort. Sadie sits in the corner, her glasses reflecting the dim light as she watches quietly. Then there’s Lia, lounging like she’s at a spa rather than waiting to be hunted.

My instincts catalog every unconscious movement, every micro expression. The tension in Bianca’s shoulders. The slight tremor in Sadie’s hands when she pushes her glasses up. The way Lia’s casual pose is just a fraction too deliberate to be genuine.

I smooth down the simple black dress I’m wearing, already regretting not choosing something with more mobility. If this Hunt is anything like the contract described, I’ll need every advantage my years of dance training can provide.

The door swings open, and two more women enter—the final participants. My senses immediately sharpen, reading their energy before they even speak.

The first woman radiates controlled intensity. Something in her alert posture and scanning gaze broadcasts seriousness before she even introduces herself. She’s dressed practically—black leggings, fitted tank, running shoes. Smart. She’s thinking about movement, escape.

Behind her is a woman who couldn’t be more different—confident bordering on reckless in an emerald dress that catches the light beautifully but screams impractical for anything requiring physical exertion.

“Well,” says Bianca, her voice steady despite the slight tremor in her hands. “I guess we’re all in this together now.” She stands, extending her hand. “I’m Bianca. Painter by day, apparently prey by night.”

I offer my hand, trying to keep my voice steady despite the thundering pulse in my wrists. “Keira. Professional dancer, which I’m hoping gives me some advantage in whatever this hunt involves.”

I can feel the undercurrent of emotion in the room shift with their arrival. The energy has changed—the Hunt is becoming real.

“Advantage assumes we want to avoid being caught,” Lia says, her amber eyes gleaming with dangerous intent. Her posture on the couch reminds me of a lioness at rest – relaxed but ready to pounce. “Lia. I run an art gallery, and I’m here by choice.”

Sadie adjusts her glasses. “Sadie. I work in tech.” Her voice is soft but determined. I notice how her fingers tap rhythmically against her thigh—a nervous habit she’s trying to control.

“Cora Pike.” The woman in the emerald dress practically vibrates with excitement. “And before anyone asks, yes, Mayor Pike is my father, and no, he doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Mira Sullivan,” says the serious one, standing tense near the door. “Journalist.”

Bianca raises an eyebrow. “A journalist at a secret sex hunt with an iron-clad NDA. That’s either very brave or very stupid.”

“Probably both,” Mira responds.

I shift slightly, my body automatically finding balance on the velvet couch. “Has anyone actually participated in something like this before?”

Nervous laughter and head shakes answer my question.

“First time for everyone then,” Lia drawls, examining her nails. “How wonderfully democratic.”

The conversation shifts to plans after the Hunt. I find myself laughing. “I was supposed to choreograph a music video shoot on Monday. Assuming I still have functioning legs.”

“Optimistic,” Sadie mutters.

Cora grins. “I’m supposed to attend a charity luncheon with my father. Can you imagine explaining why I’m walking funny?”

“You could always blame it on new heels,” Lia suggests, her voice dripping with amusement. “Works every time.”

“What about you, Mira?” Bianca asks. “Any mundane responsibilities waiting?”

“Deadline for a story.” The irony isn’t lost on me. “Though I doubt my editor would accept ‘participated in underground sex hunt’ as justification for being late.”

“Underground sex hunt,” I repeat. “When you say it like that, it sounds even more insane.”

When Mira suggests we form an alliance, I feel a flash of relief. Safety in numbers. But Lia’s throaty laugh cuts through the room.

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Her eyes gleam with intensity. “I came here to be hunted. To be claimed. To finally experience something real.”

Before anyone can respond, the door swings open.

A man enters, his presence immediately dominating the room. Xavier Blackwood, I recognize him from Obsidian. His leather clothing clings to his muscular frame, and his steel-gray eyes sweep over us with predatory assessment.

“Ladies. I trust you’ve had time to get acquainted,” he says. His voice carries power without effort.

When he announces that elite guests will be watching our hunt through cameras, my stomach twists into knots. I practically choke on my own saliva.

This isn’t just about being hunted. We’re entertainment.

“Before we begin, you’ll need to change into the appropriate attire.” He gestures toward mahogany wardrobes; each marked with our names. “Your personal clothing will be kept safe until after the hunt concludes.”

“Change into what exactly?” Mira asks, voicing the question forming on my lips.

That dangerous smile returns. “Something more… suitable for the evening’s activities.”

I move toward my assigned wardrobe with measured steps, refusing to betray the trembling in my limbs. Inside, I find scraps of purple fabric that barely qualify as clothing. The material is soft against my fingertips, but there’s so little of it. A top that would scarcely cover my breasts, a bottom piece that would leave my thighs entirely exposed.

“Ten minutes,” Xavier announces, checking his watch. “I suggest you move quickly. The other hunters are already in position.”

My fingers clutch the fabric tightly, knuckles whitening. I’ve never felt more exposed, and I haven’t even changed clothes yet.

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