Konstantin
She's going to run.
I can see it in the way her spine straightens, the way her fingers tighten around that mask. Number four. She doesn't know what she's just volunteered for, but she knows it's better than staying here where I can ask questions she doesn't want to answer.
Smart woman.
Foolish woman.
I pull the red mask from inside my jacket, I picked it up on instinct, the same instinct that made me watch her from the moment she entered the ballroom an hour ago. It settles it over my face perfectly. The familiar weight centers me, sharpens my focus.
The Hunt is my favorite part of these nights. Not for the same reasons as the other men who participate. They like the chase because it ends with soft skin and willing mouths. They like being predators in a world that usually demands they play civilized.
I like it because it's honest.
No pretense. No games. Just pursuit and capture, hunter and prey, with rules that everyone understands.
But she's different.
She didn't come here for The Hunt. She came here with poison and purpose, wearing vengeance like perfume. When I saw her slip something into that glass, so quick, so practiced, I should have been irritated. Another complication on what was supposed to be a simple evening.
Instead, I was fascinated.
Who tries to kill Artur Troskoy at a Bratva masquerade? Who has the audacity, the calculation, the sheer balls to attempt murder in a room full of Russia's most dangerous men?
This woman, apparently. This woman with her midnight blue gown and her careful composure and her eyes that burned with something too fierce to be simple hatred.
I cross the ballroom toward the northern entrance, aware of the other hunters doing the same. Dmitri. Anatoly. Men I know, men I've hunted alongside before. They nod at me, their red masks identical to mine.
But I make sure they understand: number four is mine.
I don't have to say it out loud. They can see it in the way I move, the way I position myself. Konstantin Grinevsky doesn't share. Konstantin Grinevsky doesn't back down.
Konstantin Grinevsky always catches his prey.
The northern entrance is already filling with people.
The ten women wearing numbered masks stand in a line by the door, some giggling nervously, others with the confident posture of those who've done this before.
My mystery woman is third from the left, her red hair, I'd guess natural, from the way it catches the light, falls in waves down her back.
She's not giggling. She's not confident. She's calculating.
She has removed her heels.
I can see her scanning the grounds beyond the door, marking exits and obstacles. The Hotel grounds sprawl across forty acres of manicured gardens and wild forest. Plenty of places to hide. Plenty of places to disappear.
But not from me.
Mikhail Vasiliev steps forward, his own mask, gold and elaborate, catching the chandelier light.
"Ladies. Gentlemen" His voice carries the authority of a man who owns everything he surveys.
"You know the rules. First horn, the prey runs.
Second horn, hunters follow. Two hours until the bell tolls and signals the end of the game. Winning mask gets their wish."
He pauses, his gaze sweeping across the women. "And remember, what happens in The Hunt stays in The Hunt. Consent is implied by participation. Capture means surrender."
A few of the women shiver. One smiles.
My woman's jaw tightens.
She really doesn't know what she's volunteered for.
The first horn sounds. A low, primal note that seems to vibrate in my chest.
The women scatter like birds.
Most head for the gardens, where the manicured hedges and decorative fountains offer quick hiding spots. A few brave souls run for the tree line, where the forest begins.
Number four sprints straight for the darkness.
Fast. Faster than I expected in that dress. After three strides she gathers her skirt in both hands, and runs like something is chasing her.
Something is about to be.
The five-minute gap between horns feels like an eternity. Around me, the other hunters are laughing, joking, making bets on who they'll catch first. Dmitri is eyeing number seven, a blonde who went left toward the fountain. Anatoly is watching number two disappear into the hedge maze.
I'm watching the tree line where she vanished, counting seconds.
The second horn sounds.
I move.
The other hunters scatter in different directions, their red masks bobbing through the darkness. I ignore them. My focus has narrowed to a single point: the space between trees where I last saw midnight blue and shimmering gold.
The grass is damp beneath my shoes, soaking through expensive leather. I don't care. The grounds blur past, gardens giving way to wild grass, wild grass giving way to forest floor. My eyes adjust to the darkness, picking out shapes and movement.
There.
A flash of gold, the accent on her dress catching moonlight.
She's fast, I'll give her that. And smart enough to stay off the paths, where her footprints would be obvious. She's moving through the underbrush parallel to a trail, using the trees for cover.
But she's leaving a trail anyway. Broken branches. Disturbed leaves. The faint impression of bare feet in soft earth.
And something else.
I stop, crouch down, touch my fingers to the ground.
Blood.
Just a few drops, but enough. She cut her foot on something. A rock, a root, doesn't matter. Now I don't need to track her movements. I just need to follow the blood.
In the distance, I hear sounds that confirm what I already know about The Hunt. Laughter. Moans. The soft cries of women who ran just far enough to make the capture feel earned before surrendering to eager hands.
My cock stirs at the thought, but I push the arousal aside.
Not yet.
First, I need answers. I need to know who she is, why she wants Troskoy dead, and what the hell she thought was going to happen after she poisoned one of the Bratva's most connected bosses.
Then, maybe, I'll let myself want her the way my body is demanding.
The blood trail leads deeper into the forest, away from the sounds of other couples. She's putting distance between herself and the Hunt, probably hoping she can hide until the bell and then slip away to claim her prize.
She doesn't understand that I'm not like the other hunters.
I don't give up.
I don't get distracted.
And I never, ever lose my prey.
The trail ends at an old gazebo, half-hidden by overgrown vines and flowering bushes. It's a remnant from when the hotel was first built, decades ago. Most people have forgotten it exists.
But she found it.
I can see her through the gaps in the vines, pressed against the far railing, her back to me. Her shoulders are heaving from exertion. One hand grips the wooden rail. The other is pressed against her chest, right where her dress dips low.
Right where I'd bet money there's a scar.
I step onto the gazebo floor.
She spins, her eyes wide behind her mask.
For three heartbeats, neither of us moves.
Then she bolts.
I catch her before she makes it two steps, my arm wrapping around her waist and hauling her back against my chest. She's all curves and fury, thrashing like a wildcat. Her elbow catches my ribs, a good hit that'll leave a bruise, and her heel slams down toward my instep.
I shift my weight, absorbing the blow, and spin her around to face me.
"Done running?" I ask.
"Fuck you." Her voice is breathless, vicious.
"Not yet." I can feel my mouth curving into a smile. "But I appreciate the offer."
She tries to knee me in the groin. I block it with my thigh, which puts her leg between mine, which puts her body flush against me.
The contact sends heat straight through me.
She feels it too. I see her pupils dilate, see the way her breath catches.
"What are you going to do with me?" The question comes out quieter than her earlier defiance, but no less fierce.
It's the first real question she's asked. The first time she's acknowledged that this is happening, that I've caught her, that the game has shifted.
I should take her right here. That's what The Hunt means. Capture equals surrender equals whatever the hunter wants.
But something in her eyes stops me.
She didn't understand. When she grabbed that mask, when she ran into these woods, she didn't know what she was volunteering for. She thought it was something else.
And I might be a monster, but I'm not that kind of monster.
"I'm taking you back," I say.
Relief flashes across her face, but is quickly hidden.
"But not to the ballroom." I lean closer, until my mouth is next to her ear. "To my suite. Where you're going to tell me why you want to kill Artur Troskoy."
She goes rigid in my arms.
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll hand you over to Troskoy myself and let him ask the questions." I pull back enough to meet her eyes. "Your choice, milaya."
For a long moment, she stares at me. I can see her mind working, calculating odds and options.
Then her shoulders drop half an inch.
"Fine."
"Good girl."
The words make her stiffen again, but I'm already moving. I bend, hook one arm under her knees and the other around her back, and lift her over my shoulder.
She makes a sound of protest.
"You're bleeding," I say, grabbing her foot. "And we need to make this look convincing."
"Convincing?"
"The other hunters caught their prey and claimed their rewards. Most of them are still fucking in the gardens." I start walking back through the forest, her weight comfortable on my shoulder. "If I carry you back empty-handed, people will ask questions."
Understanding dawns in her eyes. "So you need to look like you're taking me somewhere private to—"
"Exactly."
Her jaw sets. "And you're not going to—"
"No." The word comes out harder than I intended. "I told you. I'm taking you to my suite for answers. Nothing else. Not unless you beg for it."
She grunts out a bitter laugh and I slap her ass for good measure.
We emerge from the forest into the gardens. In the distance, I can see other hunters carrying their prizes back toward the hotel wing of the estate. Some of the women are laughing. One is kissing her captor's neck. Another has her dress half-undone already.
My mystery woman lifts her head and mutters her disbelief.
"You really didn't know," I say quietly.
"I knew it was a hunt." Her voice is tight. "I didn't know it was... that."
"Would you have grabbed the mask if you'd known?"
She's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Yes."
The honesty of it strikes something in my chest.
"Because anything was better than staying in that ballroom with me asking questions."
"Yes."
At least she's consistent.
We reach the private entrance to the hotel wing.
My suite is on the top floor, a courtesy from Mikhail, who knows I prefer privacy when I'm working.
Not that I'm working tonight. Tonight was supposed to be pleasure.
A hunt, a willing woman, a release for the violence that always simmers under my skin.
Instead, I'm carrying a would-be poisoner who looks at me like I'm the dangerous one.
The irony isn't lost on me.
The elevator is empty. I set her down just long enough to press the button for my floor, then lift her again before the doors close.
"I can walk," she says.
"Your foot is bleeding."
"It's not that bad."
"And we need to maintain appearances." I glance down at her. "Unless you want rumors spreading that Konstantin Grinevsky caught prey he couldn't handle?"
Her eyes narrow. "Konstantin Grinevsky."
Fuck.
I shouldn't have said my name. But the damage is done.
"You've heard of me." It's not a question.
"Everyone's heard of you." Her voice is carefully neutral. "The Reznikov’s' enforcer. The one they send when they want someone to disappear."
"Disappear, confess, or die." I say it matter-of-factly. "Depending on what's needed."
"And which one am I?"
The elevator doors open onto my floor.
"That depends on what you tell me in the next hour."
I carry her down the hallway to my suite, unlock the door with one hand, and step inside.
The space is ridiculous, all dark wood and leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the grounds. I barely noticed when I checked in earlier. Now, it feels too intimate. Too much like a seduction instead of an interrogation.
I set her down on the leather couch, then step back before the urge to touch her again can override my common sense.
She looks around the room, cataloging exits and weapons with the same practiced eye she used in the forest.
Then her gaze lands on me, and I see the exact moment she makes her decision.
"Emilia," she says. "My name is Emilia Markova."
The name hits me like a fist to the chest.
Markova.
Markov.
Oh, fuck.