Chapter 21 Under The Eyes of Giants #2
Jack watched the cameras every year, taking note of those who displayed questionable tendencies.
They might follow the rules here, motivated by the desire to be invited back, but outside of The Preserve, when they thought no one was watching, he bet they acted differently.
Those were the hunters that made it to his list, the ones he’d observe relentlessly in the months that followed.
It should have been a failproof system, but every population had some level of rot.
Reaching for the top book on a nearby stack, he lifted his battered copy of Walden and thought of Thoreau’s failed search for utopia.
Even a place as picturesque as Walden Pond eventually showed damage from human existence—and that had been done by the one person who desperately wanted his plan to succeed.
Perhaps the cruelest flaw of human nature was not the desire to destroy, but the desperate need to claim what could never be owned—an entitlement that only left wreckage in its wake.
Maybe The Feast was always going to end this way—destroyed by the animals that made it functional. But what about the people it helped?
Jack’s inbox overflowed with letters from former tributes, messages of gratitude, and transformation that he kept in a locked file on his private server.
Some wrote to thank him for the money that had saved their families.
Others described the freedom they had found and the new lives they had built on the foundation he provided.
A few requested the chance to participate again, their hunger for the game awakened rather than satisfied.
Those he offered employment to instead.
Vanessa had been one of the first. A tribute from the third year, sharp-tongued and sharp-eyed, who had seen through the spectacle to the machinery beneath.
She understood what the Feast truly was, and she had wanted to help.
Now she welcomed new tributes with the warmth of someone who had walked the same path, her presence a promise that survival was possible.
The system worked. Until recently.
But perhaps the flaw had always been there, waiting. The same flaw that turned chancellors into monsters and politicians into tyrants.
Power never corrupted all at once. It crept in through small permissions, tiny entitlements that expanded like cracks in a foundation.
A man bends one rule because he can. Then another, because no one stopped him the first time.
Slowly, the rules cease to exist at all, rewritten by those who benefit most from their absence.
It was how empires rotted from within. How democracies slid into fascism while giants convinced themselves they were exceptions to the societal decay below.
But rot didn’t always stem from the root. Many times, it spread from the top, where the giants wrote the rules that didn’t apply to them.
Jack turned from the fire. The irony was not lost on him as he sat high above the rest, deciding the punishments for those below.
His hand curled into a fist, the RA ring biting into his finger. He should have seen it coming.
The soft gurgle of draining water reached his ears, and Jack stilled. Soon, he’d have to face the consequences of his failures again.
He moved quickly to the narrow table beside the front door. The drawer slid open on silent runners. He placed his gun inside and pushed it closed.
The suite was chilled after the rain, so he adjusted the iron grate, leaving the hearth open. He crouched before the flames, staring as they licked hungrily at the fresh wood. Orange light played across the stone wall, casting shadows that shifted and danced like living things.
Minutes passed. The drain had long since fallen silent.
A soft knock shattered the stillness.
Jack rose and retrieved the key from the low table, his movements unhurried despite the tension coiling in his chest. He approached the door and pressed his palm flat against the cool wood, reaching for his phone.
He powered it back on and tapped the security app, pulling up the camera feed of the hallway outside his door.
A servant stood rigid, a silver tray balanced on gloved hands. And looming behind him, close enough to cast a shadow over the smaller man’s shoulders, Hunter Volkov glared at the door with murder in his eyes.
“Leave it and go,” Jack said, his voice carrying through the door.
Hunter stepped forward and glared up at the camera with a growl. “I am not playing games, comrade.” His accent thickened with his temper. “This is against rules and you know it. Do not make me break down this door.”
Jack pressed his palm flat against the wood. Hunter could do it—would do it, if provoked far enough. But that would only terrify Daisy more, and right now her fear mattered more than Hunter’s protocol.
She needed time. He would give it to her.
“Thorne,” the eldest and most dangerous Volkov growled impatiently.
Jack kept his voice level, unhurried. “You know me, Hunter. Have I ever put a tribute at risk?”
Silence stretched through the door, heavy with unspoken accusations.
A Russian curse whispered through the wood. “Nyet. The answer better be the same come dawn.”
Jack watched the camera feed as Hunter reluctantly waved the servant away. Silver clattered softly against the floor.
He glared up at the camera once more. “You make me regret this, comrade, and you will pay.” His heavy footfalls retreated down the hall, each step a grudging concession.
Jack waited until the camera showed an empty corridor before turning the key in the lock. He retrieved the silver tray and then locked the door again.
“You moved the key.”
He turned and stilled.
Daisy stood in the center of the room, her hair slicked back from her face, her body wrapped once more in the crimson bedding. Water still glistened on her bare shoulders, catching the firelight like scattered jewels.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Only to get the food,” Jack said, carrying the tray to the seating area and setting it on the low table before the fire. He placed the key beside it, brass glinting against silver, and stepped back.
The tray held a small feast. Crusty bread still warm from the oven.
A pot of golden broth steamed as he lifted the lid.
Sliced pears arranged in a fan beside a wedge of soft cheese.
A carafe of water and a smaller one of wine.
And tucked into the corner, a white packet of over-the-counter Paracetamol and a small tin of healing salve.
This wasn’t for him. It was for her. The Volkovs sent their message loud and clear.
Jack straightened and looked at her, waiting for her to sit down, but she remained rooted to the spot, the blanket clutched to her chest, her gaze locked on him.
What did she see?
“Please.” He waved a hand to the feast he’d arranged. “Eat.”
Firelight painted her in shades of gold and shadow, illuminating the curve of her collarbones, the hollow of her throat, the soft swell of flesh where the crimson fabric gaped.
He forced his attention back to her face, the gash at her temple now clean and the bruise on her cheek a deeper shade of plum.
“Only a fool would eat here.”
“You’re not a fool,” he said with unclear certainty.
“How do you know?”
“A fool as beautiful as you wouldn’t have made it this far without getting captured.”
She frowned. “I’m not beautiful.”
“That’s arguable.”
“Arguable or not, I don’t have the privilege to be a beautiful fool. Foolishness is reserved for girls who can afford not to be smart.”
“By morning, you’ll be able to afford whatever you want.”
“At what cost?” She was angry, and rightly so.
He glanced down at the food. “Only a fool would turn away food on an empty stomach. I know you’re hungry.” He met her stare with challenge, then used her fear to force her to eat. “You’ll need your strength.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she slowly crossed the room, each step careful as she favored the parts of her feet that hurt least. When she reached the seating area, she lowered onto the edge of a leather chair, keeping the maximum distance between her body and his.
Jack settled into the opposite chair and watched her silently.
She started with the water, draining half the glass before setting it down with trembling fingers.
Then the bread, torn into small pieces and chewed with the mechanical focus of someone who had forgotten the taste of food.
She ignored the wine. Ignored the cheese.
Reached for the broth and drank it directly from the bowl, propriety abandoned in favor of survival.
He cataloged every detail as she ate. The way her throat moved when she swallowed. The way her fingers curled around the bowl for warmth. The way her eyes kept returning to him, assessing, calculating, searching for the threat she clearly expected—a seed he’d planted in order to get her to eat.
Neither of them looked away as they studied each other, the silence growing thick between them, charged with the particular tension of two people occupying a space too small for the weight of their secrets.
The fire crackled. Music drifted from below. And uncertainty flickered in her unwavering stare.
Beneath Jack’s clothes, below the layers of secrets he kept hidden from the world, ran a current hot and dangerous, fed by her proximity and the unflinching courage that refused to let her look away.
“How did you get all those scars?”
The question landed like a blade between his ribs.
Jack’s jaw locked. Every muscle in his body coiled with the instinct to deflect, to evade, to bury the answer so deep she would never find it.
He rose from the chair without a word and walked to the dressing room, his strides long and deliberate. Anger simmered beneath his skin, though he couldn’t name its target. Her, for asking. Himself, for inviting the question in the first place.
He grabbed a dress shirt from the closet, white cotton soft as silk, and returned to the sitting area. She hadn’t moved. Her eyes tracked his approach with the wariness of prey.