Chapter 2 #2
Ash retrieved a leather portfolio, thick with correspondence. Jack’s golden stalk insignia embossed on the cover.
“Four hundred twelve applications. Screened to eighty-seven viable candidates for you to personally review.”
Jack took the file. “Thank you.”
He’d refined the application process over several years. The carefully designed process sought a specific kind of desperation. The moral riddles eliminated thrill-seekers along the way. And the sensual questions ensured the events menu fit the tastes of their male guests.
But Jack valued the essays most. Those couldn’t be worked through an algorithm or delegated to someone else. It was his event, and therefore, he saw it as his personal duty to read each and every one that made it this far, leaving the final selection to his discretion.
The essays were a far cry from quality literature, but each one told a story and showed him proof that good humans still existed. The words on those pages were glimpses into real people’s souls.
Flipping open the folder, he skimmed the first few applications, only giving them a surface glance.
“Daisy Burdan. A twenty-two-year-old laundress in London. No criminal record,” he read aloud.
“There are a few in there with records.”
“That doesn’t bother me. Sometimes people have no other choice but to break the law. Not everyone is privileged enough to escape the penalties.” He shut the folder, deciding to save the finer details for later when he was alone.
“I’ll forward my approved list by week’s end.”
“Perfect. The official invitations should reach them by month's end. There are a few we're still vetting. Cross-referencing addresses and account information to make sure nothing is off.”
Jack didn’t question how they hacked into such private data. Experience showed him the Volkovs were sticklers for detail and experts in both digital and physical security. He trusted them to get the job done.
“Emerald card? Gold seal? Full presentation as usual?” Ash asked.
“Simple and elegant.”
Once they had the guest list covered, they reviewed venue preparations.
Jack toured the ballroom where the masquerade, better known as The Wrecking Ball, would take place.
Chandeliers were being dusted and rehung by silent staff working diligently to see to every preparation.
The black marble floor reflected like dark water.
Ash noted the various areas that would be transformed for the event. “The does and stags will arrive by limo and be presented from the veranda as usual. The hunters will be well on their way by that point, having enjoyed several hours of libations prior to the ball.”
Jack paused long enough to draw one servant’s attention. “You’re doing lovely work,” he said softly, and the servant quickly dropped their gaze.
Ash’s detailed description of the ball faded as he looked peculiarly at Jack.
Jack, as always, deflected any comment by maintaining control of the conversation. “The hunters—walk me through the confirmed list.”
“Of course. Forty-seven confirmed, twelve pending.” Ash handed him the list. “The usual crowd.”
Jack glanced at the list, his inspection snagging on one name in particular. “Hadrian Welles,” he read with distaste. “His behavior last year caused some concern.”
“He is aggressive prick,” Hunter corrected in his thick Russian accent. “He behaves badly again, his invitation is revoked. Permanently.”
Hadrian Welles was fifth-generation wealth, the kind who believed power, once inherited, led to irrevocable entitlement. He couldn’t be more wrong.
“Let’s hope our comrade is smart enough not to cross any lines,” Stone said. “We keep a close eye on him. You will be impressed with our security upgrades.”
“I look forward to seeing what you’ve done.”
Men like Welles were why Jack created the Feast. Not to serve them. To expose them.
He continued to skim the list. “Peter Pangbourne? That honeymoon was short-lived.”
“What honeymoon?” Stone laughed. “He is still not married.”
Ash rolled his eyes. “Even if he was, he’d still attend the feast. Peter Pangbourne is a man who refuses to grow up.”
“His future bride will only put up with so much,” Stone continued, implying he had personal experience with Peter’s perpetual fiancée.
Shortly after they returned to the study, dainty footsteps approached. The three brothers stood in unison, and Jack followed their gaze to the door.
A small blonde in a cashmere sweater dress stepped in carrying a tray. “Sorry to interrupt.” She grinned cheekily. “But I wanted to.”
Ash took the unnecessary tray of fruit and coffee and set it aside. “Thank you, printsessa.”
Hunter scowled. “Very clever, Lisichka. But you still disobeyed us.”
Unintimidated, she extended a hand to Jack. “You must be the man I heard so much about. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Marigold.”
He glanced at the brothers before touching her. Stone nodded.
“J Thorne.” He clutched her dainty fingers in a brief greeting. “A pleasure.”
Marigold’s eyes flicked between the brothers. “I think I see why you didn’t want me to meet him.” She looked back at Jack. “There’s something…palpable about you.”
“Unfortunately, Marigold is unable to attend,” Hunter growled.
“She will be very busy,” Stone agreed, “nursing a sore popka.”
Ash pulled her back against his front, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear as he whispered, “Does it feel good being seen?”
She laughed nervously. “I…” She chewed her lower lip, then lifted her chin. “Yes, it does. Better than being hidden away like a dirty secret.”
Stone shook his head. “Showtime is over—”
“What? No!” She looked at Jack, but he was staying out of whatever sort of lovers’ quarrel this was.
“Nyet?” Hunter repeated, his thick Russian seeping through as his eyes darkened.
“Fine. Have it your way, brat.” Stone led her to the billiard table.
“Wait—”
“For what? You obviously need more attention.” He kissed her hard, backing her against the antique table and arching her back toward the felt surface. “We warned you to stay out of sight. You disobeyed.” He lifted her onto the table. “Someone hold her arms.”
Ash rounded the table and pinned her arms to the surface. Stone pushed up her dress, exposing her snow-white panties.
Jack set down his empty glass. “I think we’ve covered—”
“Stay.” Hunter ordered. “Marigold wants you to watch. Don’t you, Lisichka?”
Jack settled back in his seat, not because he’d been ordered to do so or because he had any interest in what was about to take place, but because the bourbon was good and it would take a moment for Henry to bring the car around.
Hunter joined the others, surrounding Marigold as they sprawled her out on the billiard table like a feast. Jack sent a text alerting Henry that the meeting was over.
Stone plucked a pool cue from the rack, unscrewing the wide end and tossing the tapered tip aside. Most men would pay a fortune for his front-row seat. Jack would give it away for free.
“Spread those legs like you mean it, or I’ll flip you over and smack that popka raw.”
Hunter held her ankle while Ash pinned her arms. Marigold’s whimpers turned to moans as Stone leaned over her, his arm moving steadily, that thick end of the cue in hand.
“See what you made us do,” Ash murmured with practiced refinement designed to disguise his lethal edges. “Bad girl.” He smirked at his brother. “Don’t stop until she’s dripping.”
Jack swallowed down the last sip of Mad Hatter, his face a mask of neutrality.
“Put that hand to use,” Hunter said, the hiss of his zipper lowering a whispered backdrop to her increasing moans.
Jack quietly set his empty glass aside, leaving them to the rest of their afternoon. He showed himself out just as Marigold’s cries crescendoed.
The Feast would begin in three weeks. Fifty-some tributes would descend upon The Preserve once they made it through The Becoming. The hunters would greet them once they were presented at The Wrecking Ball, and then The Hunt would begin.
Jack was already looking forward to it, but not the way most men did. They were there to chase the does. Jack stayed in the shadows, the perfect vantage to hunt the hunters.