Chapter 4 Rhett #2
The chamber is worse than I remember. All carved oak and black marble, with oil portraits stacked up the walls like an archive of dead men and their disappointed wives.
The ceiling is low, the lights deliberately dim.
At the center: the table. The rest of my Boys are already in position, each radiating a different shade of threat.
Julian lounges with his chin on his fist, angelic in his contempt. He sees me and grins, teeth too even to be real. “You’re late,” he scoffs.
“Fashionably,” I reply. I take the chair beside him, keeping my back to the wall.
Colton is two seats down, hood up, hair shadowing his eyes. He flicks a glance at me, says nothing, but his fingers drum the table with a steady rhythm.
Bam is at the far side, arms folded, bulk filling the chair like it’s an afterthought. His jaw works on a phantom chew, eyes fixed on the surface of the table. He’s bored, or pretending to be.
At the head of the table sits Dr. Abelard, spine ramrod-straight, hands folded with disdain. Ms. Valence perches to his right, posture perfect, her hair in a chignon so severe it might be a weapon.
Abelard’s eyes are glassy and pale; the irises seem to dissect you. “Welcome, gentlemen,” he says. “Let’s begin.”
The guards close the door.
Abelard launches into an update: new rules for the Hunt, security upgrades, a rundown of all the “unfortunate incidents” that forced the change.
I don’t care. My mind is elsewhere.
I see her: Isolde, the line of her throat, the way her jaw set when I forced her down. The way her lips parted, softening for a single heartbeat before the hate returned. I want to taste it again. I want to drag her out from behind that armor and see what’s left when she’s out of words.
“Rhett.”
Abelard’s voice cracks me back to the present. I meet his gaze, steady.
“Yes?”
“You seem distracted,” he says, and the ghost of a smile flickers at his mouth. “Are you prepared to accept your obligations for your Hunt?”
Julian snickers, low. Bam grunts. Colton just watches.
“I am,” I say.
“Very good. Then let’s address the matter of your candidate.”
He produces a file, slim and cream-colored, sets it on the table and slides it toward me. I don’t reach for it.
Abelard continues, “Isolde Greenwood has been selected as your Prey. In accordance with the Night Hunt protocols, you will be responsible for her integration, capture, and, ultimately, her subjugation and reproduction.”
The words are smooth, practiced. A job description for a monster.
Abelard steeples his fingers. “You have one week. At the conclusion of that period, she will be presented to you for the ritual.”
Julian leans in, blue eyes sparking. “What if she breaks before the Hunt?”
Valence smiles without moving her face. “Then you clean up the mess, as always.”
Colton speaks. “What if someone else gets to her first? She’s a pretty big target.”
Abelard waves this off. “The Board’s protection extends to all Prey. Any breach of protocol will result in—”
“—consequences,” Bam interrupts, rolling his eyes. “We know. We’ve all had the speech.”
Valence clears her throat. “Gentlemen, let’s review logistics.”
A drone of talk follows: transportation to the woods, emergency protocol in case of a repeat, where to hide the cars, what to do if campus security gets curious.
Abelard wants tighter timing on the extraction; he’s obsessed with minimizing exposure, as if the real danger is bad press, not the violence.
I tune out until Valence’s voice sharpens, addressing me. “Rhett. Will you be providing the attire, or shall we?”
I blink. “Attire?”
“For the Prey. White dress, as per custom.”
I shrug. “You pick. I don’t care.”
She smiles with her teeth. “We already have the measurements.”
Jules snorts. “Creepy, even for you.”
Valence ignores him, turning to Abelard. “And the flower crown?”
Abelard looks at me. “Preference?”
I hesitate, then: “Lavender. And white roses.”
He nods, scribbles it down. “Just like her sister.”
The table goes silent for a moment, everyone careful not to look at me too directly.
Valence breaks the pause. “Next: security. We will escort the girl to the perimeter, but after that, it’s tradition. You know the drill. Catch her. You must mark your claim in front of the Boys before sunrise, or you forfeit and she dies. No one will miss her.”
Colton murmurs, “Rules are rules.”
Jules laughs. “Funny how the rules always change when you’re winning.”
“Enough,” Abelard says, voice cold. “This Hunt is not about sport. It’s about preservation.”
I glance at the wall searching for a clock—useless, since there isn’t one—and realize the meeting has probably only been about half an hour. Time here runs slow, like blood in winter.
Valence folds her hands. “Any questions?”
Jules raises a finger. “What if she dies like Casey?”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Then you make it look like an accident.”
Abelard leans in, gaze fixed on me. “Do you require anything else for the evening, Mr. Grey?”
My mind jumps to Isolde: the taste of her blood, the flash of fear in her eyes, the way she never backed down, even when I had her cornered. I want her. I want to break her so completely that she can’t remember who she was before me.
I shake my head. “No.”
Abelard smirks, tossing a pen across the table. “Do you accept the terms, Mr. Grey?”
The only correct answer is yes, but I let the silence stretch. In that space, I feel Isolde’s mouth under mine, the way her whole body fought even as it leaned in. I want it again, I want it always, but part of me wonders if I’m betraying Casey. If she would hate me for it.
Despite her untimely and unfortunate death, I did care about her.
Fortunately, I have very quickly gotten attached to her snooty, nosy little sister much faster than I imagined I would.
I look Abelard in the eye. “I do.”
He slides a pen across the table, ink the same shade as dried blood.
I sign. The tip of the pen bites into the paper, carving my name deeper than necessary.
Julian claps slowly. “Our boy’s all grown up.”
Colton smiles. “She’s not going to make it easy for you.”
“I’d be disappointed if she did.”
Abelard collects the file, tucks it into a drawer, and stands. “Congratulations, Mr. Grey. You are now responsible for the Greenwood line.”
Valence’s smile sharpens. “Try not to waste her, dear. It’s so hard to get good stock these days.”
The guards open the door. Abelard leaves without another word, Ms. Valence trailing behind.
The Feral Boys linger, as we always do. Colton pulls out a flask, takes a drag, passes it to Bam.
Julian leans over. “You look like you want to break something.”
I stare at the blank spot on the table where the contract was. “Just thinking about the next step.”
He nudges my arm. “You going to keep her on a leash, or let her think she’s free?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Julian laughs. “Maybe I’ll come watch.”
Colton tilts his head. “She’s not like Casey.”
“That’s the point,” I say.
Bam stands, stretching to his full, monstrous height. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Grey.”
“I never do,” I say.
He grins, then heads for the door. “Let’s get outta here. This place gives me the fucking creeps.”
Julian lingers at my side. “If you want her scared, do it quick. If you want her loyal, make her bleed.”
I don’t answer.
When the room is empty, I stay at the table, running my thumb over the indentation my pen left in the wood.
Somewhere outside, a bell tolls.
I rise, and the echo of it follows me down the hall.
There’s only one thing left now: take her, break her, make her mine.
I wander, not really heading anywhere. The campus is dead quiet, even for this hour and Isolde should be sleeping by now. The wind slaps at the windows, pushing dry leaves in loops around the lanterns. I light a cigarette and watch the end burn down to ash. When I finish, I flick it into the grass.
From here, I can see the chapel. The light inside is on, pale and watery through the stained glass. I walk that way, boots crunching on gravel. I don’t bother to hide.
She’s there again, just inside the door, arms crossed tight. She’s changed clothes—a sweater and jeans, hair tied back in a knot—but she hasn’t lost any of the edge. She sees me and sets her jaw.
“You going to stalk me everywhere now?” she says. “I need my notebook, pimple dick.”
“Just doing my rounds.”
Pimple dick? The fuck?
She scoffs. “Bullshit.”
“Believe what you want.”
She steps closer, eyes locked on mine. “You think you can scare me into running? You’re wrong.”
“I hope I am.”
She glances away, then back. “Why me?”
I shrug. “Luck of the draw.”
She laughs, bitter. “No. That’s not it.”
I let the silence hang. There’s nothing left to say.
She reaches out, snatches her notebook from my hand. “Next time you want to kiss me, ask.”
I grin. “You’d say yes?”
She flushes, then stalks away, hips swinging with more confidence than she probably feels. Then she stops and turns. “I want my fucking notebook back. Put it on the steps of Archer House or I’ll tell everyone you have a micro-dick.”
“No one will believe you.”
“Why? Fucked that many girls?”
I smirk, “Does that bother you?”
“Oh fuck off.”
I watch her go. I want to call after her, to say that I’m sorry, or that I can’t help it, or that none of this is what I wanted. But the words are dead before they hit my tongue.
I stand in the cold for a long time, letting the air chew through my coat and settle in my bones.
Walking away from the chapel, hands in my pockets, head bowed, I fight against the tidal wave of memories trying to surface. In a week, everything will be different. For her, for me, for the ghosts in the glass.
I light another cigarette and watch the tip burn. I wonder if she’s thinking about me the way I’m thinking about her.
I hope so.