Epilogue Amara
Darkness makes everything louder.
The car is silent except for the engine, a muted growl that climbs into my skull and sets up a nest there.
I’m blindfolded, hands in my lap, wrists resting on soft black leather.
I have no idea where we’re going, no idea how long we’ve been in motion, and even if I tried to guess, I’d fail.
Julian is quiet behind the wheel, and I have the sense he’s smiling, it’s the kind of smile you can’t see—only feel, crawling over your skin, tightening your nerves.
Every minute that passes, I’m less Amara and more a mess of raw senses.
My hearing turns feral, tracking every turn, every upshift, every time the tires slide through gravel or slap over a pothole.
The scent of his cologne is thick in the air, but beneath it is a sharp hint of pine, like the world outside is getting wilder the farther we drive.
I realize I am holding my breath. I let it out in a shudder and his hand finds my thigh, warm and heavy, fingers spreading until they touch bone.
“Don’t tense up,” he murmurs.
I almost laugh. “Easier said than done.”
Closing my eyes under the blindfold, I remember that I asked for this.
His thumb draws a circle on my skin, slow, and my muscles unclench, just a little.
We drive for what feels like an hour or a hundred. At some point I drift off, or maybe I just get lost inside my head, because the next thing I know the car is rolling to a stop and his hand is at my jaw, tilting my face toward his voice.
“Stay put.”
I obey, because I want to. I want to see what comes next.
The door opens, wind slicing through the warmth. He circles to my side, his steps making no noise. I hear the click of the seatbelt, feel the tug as he releases me. The blindfold stays on.
He lifts me out of the car. I expect the ground to be cold but it isn’t—it’s soft, a cushion of moss or thick grass, and the smell of pine is so strong I almost choke on it.
We’re in a forest. I can tell by the sound, the air, the way nothing echoes.
A tree is just steps away, the bark rough against the back of my hand as he guides me forward.
My bare feet tingle with each step. The world is alive under me: twigs, loam, the spongy rot of leaves. The sounds are different here—no distant cars, no hum of power lines, just the wind and the creak of old wood. Somewhere an owl calls, and I startle, giggle, then clamp my mouth shut.
“Almost there,” Julian says.
His voice is calm, but there’s a tension behind it, the low hum of someone holding in a secret. He leads me farther, each step careful, like he’s worried I’ll trip or run. I could, if I wanted. I could bolt.
He’d like that.
But I don’t run yet. I follow, blind, and the darkness gets lighter—not brighter, but thinner, like the air has more space. We stop.
He lets go of my hand, then tucks a finger under the blindfold. He tugs it up, slow.
Light explodes. Moonlight, cold and pure, flooding everything in light.
The trees pull back into a perfect circle, a clearing with a floor of grass so thick it glows in the dark.
I blink, eyes adjusting, and then I see myself: I am in a dress, white and thin, the hem brushing my knees.
He had me blind folded when he put it on, but it fits like it was sewn for me.
My arms are bare, my collarbones sharp. There are flowers in my hair—tiny white blooms, woven into a crown.
I see Julian across from me, standing at the edge of the clearing. He’s wearing all black, hair slicked back, his eyes eating up the light. He’s looking at me like I am the only thing in the universe, and for a minute I am.
He circles the edge, never breaking eye contact. When he reaches me, he stops. He’s so close I can see every pore, every freckle under the harsh blue light.
He leans in, lips grazing my ear. “Such a good girl for me.” Kissing me first, he steps back and waits.
I realize, after a long moment, that I’m supposed to run. Not because I’m prey, but because I want to be chased.
It hits me—the difference. The first Hunt was their ritual, their game, their way to break me. This one is mine.
I step forward, grass slick beneath my feet, the chill biting my skin but not hurting. My heart beats so hard I can hear it in my head. I look back once, then take off into the woods, white dress blurring behind me.
This is my ritual. My rebirth.
I run.
I’ve never been this alive.
There is no trail, just the freedom of the run and the feel of his gaze still hot on my back.
The woods are thick and tangled, every tree trunk waiting to trip me, every limb a snare.
I don’t care. I don’t care about the cuts on my arms or the way the dress is already ruined.
I don’t care that I’m running blind into a dark I barely understand.
All I care about is the sound behind me.
At first it’s nothing—just my own pulse, the drumline of my heart, the wheeze of my lungs as I gulp air so rapidly it scrapes the inside of my chest raw.
But after a while I hear more: a footstep, the deliberate crack of a stick, a rustle just out of sync with the wind.
He’s not running, not yet, but he’s moving, and I can feel him getting closer every second.
I try to pick up speed but I’m already at my limit. I stumble over a root, catch myself, and break into a sprint that shreds the last of the dress from my legs. I’m sure I look insane: hair wild, flower crown askew, skin streaked with mud and blood. I wish I could see myself through his eyes.
I want to know if he likes the mess I’ve become.
The trees close in, the world shrinking to a tunnel of gray and black, with only the moon ahead to guide me.
My feet slip on wet moss. I grab a tree for balance and almost rip the bark off.
My hands are covered in sap, sticky and sharp-smelling.
I keep going, driven by the certainty that Julian is always right behind me.
He wants me to fight. He wants me to run.
He wants to see how far I’ll go before I let him catch me.
For a minute I forget why we’re here. I forget the world outside this forest, the city, the Academy, the men we killed together. There’s only this: me, him, and the breathless possibility of being prey.
I crash through a wall of underbrush and into a hollow, the trees opening up enough to let a little more moonlight spill through. I pause, doubled over, my hands on my knees, sucking wind and trying to quiet the hammer of my heart. I hear him then, just a bit behind me.
He’s close.
I drop to a crouch, hiding behind a fallen log, and watch the shadows for movement. The world is so quiet I can hear the blood in my ears, the tiny patter of dew dropping off leaves, the clatter of my teeth as I shiver.
Then I hear him—slow footsteps, no rush, like he knows exactly where I am and is savoring the seconds before I realize it too.
I bite my lip, taste copper, and wonder what would happen if I ran again. I want to. I want to see if I can outpace him even for a minute. I want to see if I can make him sweat.
So, I lunge from my hiding spot, push off the log and take off at an angle, hoping to throw him off. I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I can feel him shifting, changing direction to follow me, always close but never too close.
This is a game. I know the rules, now.
The woods blur past, the world reduced to sensation. My breath rasps in and out, my lungs burning, my legs trembling with each step. I can’t stop smiling. My lips are chapped and split but I’m grinning so wide my cheeks ache.
At the edge of my vision, I catch movement. He’s running now, full stride, every step calculated, every muscle in his body tuned to this exact moment. I glance back, just once, and see him—tall, lean, all angles and hunger, eyes locked on me with an intensity that turns my stomach to water.
He wants me. Not just to catch me. To devour me.
The thought makes me run faster.
I don’t know how long we play this game. Minutes, maybe. Hours. Time doesn’t matter here. All that matters is the way my body sings with the effort, the way the cold air tears at my lungs, the way the fear of being caught slowly melts into something else.
Anticipation.
Desire.
I want him to catch me. But not yet.
I veer left, then right, weaving through the trees like a deer, each turn buying me a second more of freedom. The terrain slopes down, and I almost tumble head over heels before catching myself on a sapling. My knees buckle, but I keep going.
I can feel him gaining. He’s letting me see him, now, a dark shape flashing through the gaps in the trees, always just out of reach. He’s toying with me, and I love him for it.
The world narrows again, the trees drawing in until I have to duck and weave to get through. I hear his breathing now, steady and even, never ragged, never desperate. He’s in control. He’s always in control.
I’m the one losing it. The one breaking down.
I clear the last line of trees and find myself at the edge of another clearing, this one smaller, almost a perfect circle. The grass is shorter here, softer. The moon is brighter, the sky wide open above.
I collapse to my knees in the center, gasping, hair plastered to my forehead, arms streaked with dirt and blood. My whole body shakes.
The footsteps slow. Then stop. For a heartbeat, there is nothing but the sound of my own collapse.
I look up and see him, just at the edge of the light.
He’s smiling.
I realize I’m smiling too.
He steps forward, slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact. He circles me, once, twice, as if checking to make sure I’m really beaten.
I am. But I’ll never admit it.
He kneels behind me, his arms coming around my shoulders, his chest pressed to my back, his mouth at my ear.
“Fuuuuuck. You are so beautiful like this.” His voice is a rasp, a slight tremor to it, as if he’s barely holding himself back.