Chapter 17 Hide
Chapter Seventeen
Hide
Jack stepped back from the balcony railing and let the darkness swallow him.
She saw him.
Not the way women usually see him—the glint of wealth, the intentional design of carefully constructed power. No, she saw him in ways that made him painfully aware of every secret he hid beneath his tailored clothes.
She looked through the darkness, through the facade. Even from a distance, even with fog rising between them, she somehow managed to look right into his eyes.
Twice now.
And she didn’t flinch—a rarity very few people had the balls to do.
His thumb spun his ring, an old, unconscious habit he’d never managed to break. The signet was warm from his skin, the engraved initials worn smooth from years of this exact gesture.
He turned from the window and moved deeper into the suite, where shadows pooled in the corners and the clamor of the hunt faded to a dreamlike drone.
Lowering into a chair, Jack lifted his phone, the screen casting pale light across his features as the security feeds blinked to life. Sixteen camera angles capturing the grounds in a silver-tinged, grid view. The maze. The gardens. The grotto. The forest’s edge where fog made ghosts of the trees.
And those were only the angles he was babysitting. The team of men in the security room were on full alert, tracking every player of the game, regardless if they were hunter, stag, or doe.
The bell tolled from above. Another conquest.
On camera seven, a hunter had a tribute pressed against a marble column, her legs wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back in what appeared to be passion.
On camera twelve, three figures moved through an arbor—two hunters circling a tribute who’d stopped running, her chest heaving, her hands raised in what might have been surrender or invitation.
On camera four, a woman raced through the hedge maze, quick and desperate, a white rabbit in a garden of foxes.
Jack watched without response. This was the theater he’d built. The careful choreography of predator and prey governed by rules and contracts and the invisible lines of consent.
One night. One fortune. Total transformation.
It was transactional. Clean, in the filthiest way. Dubious, yes, but also honest.
No stealing.
No helpless victims.
The tributes were armed with the ultimate weapon—a single word that could make it all stop and go away.
That was the beauty of consent.
His thumb brushed the ring as he continued to scroll, unwilling to admit that he might be searching for something specific.
The feed from camera nine caught his attention.
A crossing, near the eastern gardens. Two figures.
The larger moved with mechanical efficiency—thrusting, grunting, utterly without finesse.
Jack recognized the set of those shoulders, the brutal rhythm.
Hadrian Welles.
The tribute beneath him was face-down on the dirt, her fingers clawing at the grass. Hadrian had one hand fisted in her hair, pushing her head down. His other hand scraped up her thigh.
Jack zoomed in on her mouth and her hands. No safeword. No protest. Just resignation. The sort of relentless pounding some hunters enjoyed.
Jack’s eyes narrowed as Hadrian’s mouth moved. The man liked to narrate, liked to remind his conquests exactly who was in control.
Jack’s jaw tightened. Any man of power who needed to constantly remind others of their authority had no power at all.
He looked away in disgust.
It wasn’t a violation. There was no signal of distress. She might even be enjoying it—some of them did. But it still turned Jack’s stomach to watch men like Hadrian Welles get away with treating others without dignity.
The carelessness of it. The way he used them like furniture, objects to later discard.
A knock at the door pulled Jack’s attention. “Come.”
Cole entered, his broad frame filling the doorway before he stepped inside and closed. His militant stare did a quick sweep of the room. “Sir. We have a safeword.”
Jack set down his phone. “Details.”
“Tribute 1942. A doe. Hunter was Marcus Castellan, a second-time guest. I’ve sent you a clip of the feed.”
“What was the situation?”
“The encounter occurred in the south gardens, near the reflecting pool.” Cole’s voice was flat and professional. “She signaled approximately six minutes ago. Security responded within forty seconds. She’s currently at Safe Zone Three, awaiting transport.”
“Injuries?”
“None visible. The medic checked her over. She’s shaken but appears physically unharmed.”
“And Castellan?”
“Cooperative. Stopped immediately upon the signal. He’s been sequestered for standard questioning.”
Jack cued up the footage.
The screen showed a cabana. Silk curtains. Cushions. Torches flickering nearby. Castellan had the tribute on her stomach, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades while the other adjusted himself.
The tribute’s face turned toward the camera—young, pretty. Castellan shifted his position, tilting her pelvis, and Jack understood immediately what he intended. The tribute’s eyes squeezed shut beneath her mask, then flew open.
Her thumb moved—that small, desperate sign that signaled the letter T as her mouth called out the safeword, “Timber!”
Jack’s hand tightened on the tablet.
Castellan froze.
The doe wasn’t crying. Not yet. But she was obviously scared. The hunter followed every rule, lifting his hands and giving her space to pull away. She scrambled forward, noticeably trembling.
Everyone had their limits.
His hand faintly trembled as he cut off the video. “Protocols were followed?”
“To the letter. Castellan’s been cooperative, and the tribute hasn’t expressed any interest in seeing him penalized.”
That was because most tributes didn’t realize they had such rights. “The footage confirms he stopped the moment she signaled.”
“Yes, sir. No anal penetration occurred. No violation.”
He arched a brow. “Vaginal?”
Cole nodded. “A fair conquest. The bells tolled about five minutes prior.”
Jack set the phone aside. “See that she’s comfortable and has everything she needs as she waits for transport home. Send for the chopper.”
“And how would you like to handle her payout? She was conquered before she forfeited.”
“She shouldn’t be punished for protecting herself.” Jack’s voice was flat and final. “See that she’s compensated in full—two million pounds.”
“Understood.”
“And put Dr. Kawanja on the flight home with her.”
“The shrink?”
“She shouldn’t be alone right now. Make sure Kawanja understands this isn’t optional—she stays with the tribute until she lands. Have her arrange any follow-up appointments needed and bill it to the Feast’s discretionary fund.”
Cole nodded, making a note on his tablet. “I’ll see to it personally. Anything else?”
Jack hesitated. The question rose unbidden, pushing against his teeth before he could stop it. “Tribute 1922. Silver dress, blonde hair. Has she been conquered?”
Cole’s fingers paused over his tablet. He looked up, but knew better than to ask questions beyond the scope of his duties.
“I’ll check the database.” He pulled up the ledger. “1922... no. Not conquered. There’s one logged encounter—” He scrolled. “Peter Pangbourne, approximately thirty minutes ago. Contact was made, but the encounter ended without completion. She escaped.”
Escaped.
The word loosened a knot of tension in Jack’s chest.
“Breached, then,” he asked, keeping his voice neutral, “but not taken?”
“Correct. She’s still in play.” Cole studied him for a moment longer than necessary. “Shall I flag her feed for priority monitoring?”
“No.” The word came too quickly. Jack forced his shoulders to relax. “Standard protocols. I was simply reviewing…progress.”
“Of course.” Cole tucked the tablet under his arm. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll see to the extraction as soon as I finish my sweep of the family wing.”
Jack nodded. “Give Ms. Volkov my regards.”
Cole’s blank expression slipped, but he quickly recovered, deliberately choosing not to acknowledge Jack’s comment about the Volkov’s sister. It was a dick move, but Jack’s nature insisted he remind the man of his upper hand. Insurance that Cole didn’t go digging into 1922.
“Thank you, Cole. That’s all.”
“Yes, sir.” The security officer withdrew, the door clicking shut behind him.
Jack reached for his phone.
He scrolled through camera logs, searching for feeds from the last hour until he found what he was looking for.
Her.
Pausing the moment she looked up at his balcony, he zoomed in on her face. Her mask was pushed up like a headband, her face fully exposed. Blonde hair fell in a tangle to her shoulders, studded with twigs and small leaves from whatever hedge she’d crawled through.
The feed showed a closer angle, catching the details he’d missed. Her feet were wrapped in strips of pale fabric—silk torn from something. Her arms were streaked with dirt, or maybe blood. The beaded hem of her gown was stained in mud, and God knew what else.
His heartbeat remained steady, even as it pounded heavier.
She looked like a wild thing. A creature of the forest, not one who had just danced the tango in a ballroom. All that careful grooming undone, all that manufactured elegance stripped away to reveal raw vulnerability underneath. And still, she was somehow beautiful.
He rewound the footage, watching her emerge from the shadows near the veranda and tracking her journey backwards. The moment her gaze found his balcony—found him—something shifted in her face.
Even on the grainy footage with only the moonlight illuminating her face, he could see it. The way she stilled. Fear and then…courage.
The way her chin lifted, not in defiance but in recognition. That was the moment she truly saw him.
Not another hunter, or a stranger in an emerald jacket. Something else. Something every other person missed. She saw past the mask and found something human and vulnerable, perhaps a reflection of herself.