Chapter 10 Julian
Amara is asleep next to me, her hair fanned across the pillow.
She’s on her side, hands curled up near her mouth.
If I wanted, I could slip my fingers between her lips and she’d probably suck them in her sleep, gentle, docile, animal.
Her body is still recovering from last night.
As much as I tried to take her gentle, I was still full of rage from the club.
She didn’t complain, just let me take my anger out on her perfect little body.
I watch her sleep for a full minute before I move. The urge is to wake her—drag her out of the dream and into mine—but that would ruin the delicacy of this moment.
Instead, I reach for the sheet and slide it down, exposing her bare skin to the cold.
Goosebumps rise across her shoulders, and she burrows deeper into the mattress.
The flex of her muscle, the subtle arch of her spine, the faintest sheen of sweat at her hairline.
Her lips are parted, still swollen from the way I bit them raw.
She doesn’t know how beautiful she is when she’s defenseless.
I do.
I think about leaving another mark. Maybe waking her up with my hand around her throat, or my tongue inside her cunt, but I restrain myself. There’s a ritual to mornings, and I respect it.
I check my phone again. Two new messages, both urgent. I sigh, then set the device face down.
There’s a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. I take a sip, then swing my legs out of bed. Amara doesn’t stir.
My clothes are scattered on the floor. I collect them, careful not to make a sound. The shirt is wrinkled, blood splattered on them. The collar smells like her, alcohol and smokes.
It’ll have to do until I can get to my dorm and change. But first… a shower.
I take my time. The water is cold for the first thirty seconds, then scalding hot.
I scrub myself until the skin is raw, until there’s no evidence left of last night’s violence except for minor cuts.
There’s a cut along my knuckle, still oozing; I reopen it under the spray, squeezing until the water runs pink.
I think of the man in the club, the way his face broke under my fist. There is no memory of guilt, only satisfaction.
I rinse out my mouth, check my teeth in the fogged mirror. I look good. I always do, but today there’s an edge—a crack in the surface, a question of how far I can push it before something breaks.
Before I break.
When I return to the bedroom, Amara is still sleeping. She has pulled the blanket up to her chin, hiding every inch of herself from the world. She is the only person who’s ever managed to look fragile and feral at the same time. I envy it.
I get dressed without looking away from her.
I lean over the bed, close enough to feel her breath on my face. She smells like sleep, like my cologne, come and sweat. I want to crawl back in and suffocate in it, but instead I brush a strand of hair from her eyes.
She sighs, just once, then goes still again. I wonder if she’s pretending, if she’s awake and cataloging every detail the way I am.
I whisper, “I’ll be back,” then grab my phone and keys, grabbing my shoes from under the window, putting them on as I leave her room.
The hallway is silent. I pass two girls in matching blazers. They don’t look at me, but I hear the whispers after I turn the corner.
My reputation is currency, but it only spends one way.
In my room, everything is exactly where I left it. The sheets are clean, the desk organized, the closet color-coded from black to midnight blue. I select a suit from the far end, Italian wool, tailored to my shoulders and narrow waist. The tie is blood red. I knot it tight.
I stand in front of the mirror and take inventory.
Face: clean, unbruised, jawline sharp. Hair: a little wild, but that’s on purpose. Eyes: blue enough to make girls cry, or so I’ve been told. Hands: steady. There’s blood on the cuticle of my left index finger. I rub it off.
I look good, but it’s not enough. I want to look dangerous. I want every person in that boardroom to see me and know I’m not afraid to take what’s mine, and what’s theirs, too.
I finish dressing, slide my phone into the inside pocket, and pull on the overcoat. The fabric is heavy, a reminder of the expectations stitched into every seam.
Before I leave, I text Amara.
Don’t move. I’ll come to you later.
I don’t wait for a reply.
The morning is brighter now, the sun creeping over the edge of the campus. I walk with purpose, every step a rehearsal for the violence to come. The Board will want a show, and I intend to give it to them.
I arrive at the Administration Building with three minutes to spare. The receptionist is the same as always, lips pursed, eyes flicking from my face to the nameplate on her desk.
“Mr. Roth,” she says, voice clipped. “They’re waiting for you.”
“Of course they are.”
I cross the lobby, ignoring the stares as I approach the conference room.
At the door, I pause. I could walk away. I could torch this entire institution and watch the world burn. But I don’t.
Revenge is better when it’s slow.
I open the door and step inside.
The Feral Boys are already there: Rhett sprawled in his chair, arms crossed; Bam to the right, flicking that stupid knife open and shut; Colton, playing on his phone, a stupid grin spread over his face.
Five Board members sit on the far side, hands folded, faces shadowed by the low light.
I take my seat and let the silence build.
Mr. Steele clears his throat.
“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Roth. We have much to discuss.”
I smile, slow and deliberate. “I’m all ears.”
Steele, Marcus, the two Abernathy brothers, and some woman I don’t recognize shuffle papers before Steele clears his throat. They wear their suits like armor, but the lines are softer than the cuts we favor. They’re the last generation, and they know it.
Steele opens the meeting with a look, not a word. His eyes find each of us in turn, pausing long enough to remind us we’re still on his leash.
“Let’s get started,” he says. His voice is silk over ice. “Mr. Roth, I assume you won’t mind that Dean Marcus has joined us. Your father declined. And look, you found your way back to decorum.”
I glance at my tie, feigning surprise. “Always a pleasure to rise to your standards.”
He doesn’t smile.
Dean Marcus sits third from the left, hands folded, face arranged in what’s supposed to be neutrality.
He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at anyone, really.
I search for a crack—some sign that he knows I fucked his daughter on his desk, that I left her sobbing and remade, but all I see is vacancy.
The Abernathy twins whisper to each other. They’re some big wig oil and gas founder. Guess they pulled in the big guns for this meeting. Usually these guys stay in the shadows, but not today. The old woman wheezes, maybe a laugh, maybe a death rattle.
Steele steeples his fingers. “You know why we’re here.”
Rhett snorts. “Because tradition demands it.”
“Because protocol demands it,” Steele corrects, voice never rising. “Because if we don’t maintain the appearance of order, the world will assume we’ve lost it.”
Colton says nothing, but the corner of his mouth lifts.
Steele produces a folder from the stack in front of him. It’s thick, bound in leather, heavier than it needs to be. He lays it in the center of the table, perfectly set between himself and us.
“This is the contract,” he says. “It outlines your obligations as the chosen Hunter. The terms are non-negotiable, but we allow you the dignity of reading them before you sign.”
He slides the folder to me. I don’t open it right away. I run my fingers along the spine, feeling for traps.
Steele continues. “You will find nothing unfamiliar. The Hunt proceeds as it has for a century. The only innovation is that we trust you will not deviate from the script, like the rest of you have. Amara’s name has been added to the Book and your signature solidifies the terms of our agreements.”
Rhett grins. “You make us sound like actors.”
“You are,” says Marcus. His voice is flat. “You exist to perform.”
I open the folder. The pages are thick, the ink so black it looks wet. There are subheadings: HUNTER RESPONSIBILITIES, TARGET ACQUISITION, COLLATERAL DAMAGE, MATERNAL RIGHTS.
There it is, spelled out in a font designed to mimic the handwriting of some dead patriarch:
Hunter will engage Runner in accordance with Board rules and local custom.
Upon successful completion of Hunt, Runner will be retained for reproductive purposes as outlined in Section 4 in the event pregnancy is not achieved within the first four months proceeding successful claiming.
All offspring are subject to legacy review and the firstborn will be surrendered in exchange for a seat.
Rhett leans over to look. “You guys are so fucked.”
Steele ignores him. “You will notice,” he says, “that Section 5 has been updated to reflect the current situation. The Marcus line is unique. It must be preserved at all costs and as such we have amended Section 4 slightly.”
I flip to Section 5. The first line stops me.
Hunter and Target will produce a viable heir within two years of contract execution. Failure to do so will result in Board intervention, up to and including substitution of genetic material as necessary.
I don’t blink. I just smile, as if the threat is a compliment.
Colton reaches for the folder. I let him take it. He reads and passes it around.
“Is this what you want?” Bam laughs. “You want him to fuck your daughter until she splits in half. What? You want to watch, too?”
A vein pulses at the edge of Marcus’s jaw, but he doesn’t respond.
Steele’s eyes never leave me. “We want what’s best for the institution. For the future.”
Bam laughs. “You want power. And you think our blood will get you there.”
Steele raises his chin a millimeter. “Your blood. Our blood. It’s all the same in the end.”
I take the pen and grab the contract. I hold it between my thumb and index, letting the weight settle. I sign with my full name—JULIAN ELLIOT ROTH—because I want them to know exactly who will come for them when this is over.
I set the pen down.
Steele closes the folder, latching it with a snap.
“There is one more item,” he says. “A clause added at the last minute, by unanimous consent.”
“What the fuck now?” I sigh.
“We rather enjoyed the show Isolde and Rhett put on. We are mandating a repeat. You will claim her in front of us.”
I look at Marcus. This is his daughter, his line, his sacrifice. He is so empty it almost impresses me.
I say, “You understand you will be watching her get fucked in front of you, right?”
Marcus nods.
Damn, what a sick fuck.
Steele stands. The meeting is over.
We stand as one, the four of us. The Board watches, silent, as we file out.
In the hallway, Rhett claps my shoulder. “Well, that was fucked.”
“Which part?” I ask.
“All of it. But especially the part where they act like they’re the ones in control.”
Bam cracks his knuckles. “I’d like to see them try and take my kid one day.”
Colton just walks, hands in pockets, already gone from the moment.
I take one last look at the boardroom through the glass. Steele is talking, but the others are already on their phones, making plans, counting days.
I want to smile. Instead, I promise myself that I’ll watch them all bleed out, down to the last germ.
The future belongs to the last man standing.
And I don’t intend to be anything less.
Before I can make it down the hall, the Dean calls my name. I have no choice but to turn and follow as he beckons me into a small side office.
“Sit,” says Marcus.
I don’t. I stand by the window, hands in pockets.
He clears his throat. “You understand that this is not a normal Hunt.”
“I’m aware.”
“She’s my only daughter.” He says it like it’s a confession, like the sentence itself is difficult to form.
“And?”
He hesitates, searching my face for something. “She’s special.”
“All the girls here are special. That’s the point, isn’t it?”
He looks away. “Her mother had… difficulties. That’s why the Board is adamant about the protocols.”
The implication is clear. They think Amara is defective, or that she might be.
“She’s not broken,” I say.
Marcus waves his hand. “You don’t know that.”
“You want to check her for purity,” I say. “You want to make sure she’s fit for breeding.”
He looks at me, and for the first time, I see the man under the mask. It’s not guilt. It’s terror. “It has to be perfect,” he says, voice hard. “The legacy. The line.”
I let the silence stretch. The air grows thick.
He composes himself. “The medical assessment is this afternoon. Nonnegotiable. She must be certified before the contract is binding.”
“You’re a sick excuse for a father, you know that right?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. His hands shake. He reaches for the framed photo, brushing dust from the glass.
“Are we done?” I ask.
He nods, but I don’t leave. I take a step closer. The room shrinks.
“You’re a coward,” I say, voice soft enough that it cuts.
He stiffens, but doesn’t deny it. “I just wanted to inform you that she will be of good breeding stock, should she pass the medical exam.”
Without thinking, I raise my middle finger and walk out. The door closes behind me with a click.