Chapter 2 - Julian
JULIAN
Purgatory’s obsidian walls are the perfect parcel for the steady heartbeat of the debauchery unfolding around me. I survey the room from my position at the private bar, ice clinking against crystal as I swirl my scotch. Everyone’s wearing masks tonight—some for anonymity, others for the fantasy.
“Julian.” Elliot Chambers nods as he approaches, his eyes tracking a lithe blonde across the room. “Quite the turnout.”
“The Blackwoods know how to draw a crowd.” My voice remains deliberately flat. I don’t do warmth—not here, not anywhere.
Across the main floor, Vane Blackwood is speaking animatedly, his green half-face mask accentuating eyes that flicker with barely contained violence.
His younger brothers, Knox and Landon, flank him like well-trained wolves.
Xavier’s absence is notable but unsurprising.
The eldest Blackwood rarely attends unless it serves a specific purpose.
“Have you seen the twins?” Elliot asks, trying too hard to sound casual.
“By the east entrance. Hunting, as usual.”
The Dexter twins stand perfectly still amidst the movement. Ace surveys the room with a glance while Cyrus’s attention remains fixed on a woman in red.
Victor Kaine pushes past. The crowd parts instinctively—even here, among predators, hierarchy exists.
I catch Theo’s eye across the room. The nightclub owner tips his glass slightly in acknowledgment. Our gazes hold a moment too long before Dominic Vega interrupts him, leaning in to say something that makes Theo’s expression tighten.
“Careful, Frost.” Jenson materializes beside me, the Blackwoods’ spymaster moving with characteristic silence. “You don’t want to show your interest before the Hunt.”
I stare him down until he drops his eyes. “My interests are my business.”
“Everything in Purgatory is the Blackwoods’ business,” he counters.
I drain my glass and stand. Tonight feels different—electric with possibilities. The Hunt approaches, and everyone is measuring dicks.
I weave through the crowd. Everyone wants something—or someone—they shouldn’t have. My attention snags on Elliot again. I notice his gaze keeps drifting to Theo across the room. Interesting.
Approaching him again, I clear my throat. “Your art collection must be lacking if you’re studying the nightclub owner so intently,” I say, sliding beside him.
Elliot startles, his composure fracturing momentarily before he rebuilds it. “I’m studying the crowd, Julian. Professional habit.”
“Of course.” I smirk behind my mask. “And I’m here for the exceptional scotch.”
Theo catches my eye again, a hint of a smile playing at his lips before he turns his attention to a guest. His hands move expressively as he speaks. The man makes running three of Ravenwood’s most exclusive clubs look effortless.
“He’s an interesting specimen,” I continue, watching Elliot’s jaw tighten. “Completely comfortable in his skin. Rare quality.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Elliot’s voice drops a register, betraying him.
“No?” I lean closer, enjoying his discomfort. “You’ve never noticed how he commands attention without demanding it? How people gravitate toward his authenticity?”
Elliot’s knuckles whiten around his glass. “I’m not interested in men, Julian.”
“Did I suggest you were?” I raise an eyebrow. “Fascinating conclusion to jump to.”
The flush creeping up Elliot’s neck is beautiful. We’ve known each other for years, circling the same wealthy pools, but he’s never admitted what I’ve always known.
“You’re insufferable,” he mutters.
“Part of my charm.” I signal the bartender for another drink. “Though I’ve been told I have other appealing qualities.”
Elliot’s eyes flicker between Theo and me. “I imagine you have. Not that I’m interested in firsthand experience.”
“Shame.” I accept my scotch with a nod. “Experimentation broadens one’s horizons. Perhaps that’s why Theo’s business ventures are so successful—he’s not afraid to explore uncharted territory.”
Elliot downs his drink in one swift motion, his jaw tight with irritation. He’s so easy to read. It’s almost disappointing.
“Speaking of exploring,” he says, eager to change the subject, “will you be participating in the Hunt this year?”
I trace the rim of my glass with one finger. “Of course. I never miss an opportunity to... pursue new acquisitions.”
“The women this year are particularly enticing,” Elliot comments, his voice pitched lower. “Though the competition will be fierce.”
“Indeed.” I follow his gaze to where the Dexter twins have cornered an unsuspecting stripper. “The Blackwoods and their favorites always get first pick. The rest of us fight for scraps—or settle for alternatives.”
“Alternatives?” Elliot’s eyebrow rises above his mask.
“Don’t be naive, Chambers.” I lean closer, enjoying how he tenses but doesn’t pull away. “When the women are claimed, some hunters find... other outlets for their frustration. I’ve fucked a man or two during the Hunts. Found it equally satisfying, if not more so.”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “That’s not my preference.”
“No?” I smirk. “Never been curious? Never wondered what it would feel like to bend over for someone like Theo? Or perhaps you’d prefer to be the one doing the bending.”
“You’re crossing a line, Frost.” His voice has an edge now, but his pupils have dilated.
“I rarely recognize lines, much less respect them.” I finish my scotch and set the glass down. “It’s what makes me such an effective hunter.”
I move closer to Elliot, closing the already minimal distance between us. The crowd pulses around us, providing the perfect cover for intimacy—forced or otherwise. His cologne is expensive but subtle, like the man himself. Always hiding his true nature behind carefully crafted facades.
“You know,” I murmur, my lips nearly brushing his ear, “I bet that perfectly tailored suit hides an ass that feels like fucking heaven.” I let my breath warm his skin, watching goosebumps rise along his neck.
“If all the pretty little prey are claimed during the Hunt, maybe I’ll bend you over and find out just how good you feel. ”
Elliot stiffens but doesn’t pull away. Interesting.
“I’d spread those cheeks and work my tongue into that tight hole until you’re begging,” I continue.
“I bet you’d grip my cock like a vice, wouldn’t you?
All that restraint would melt away while you take every inch.
Tell me, Chambers, have you ever had someone fuck you so deep you forget your own name?
Or are you saving that virginal ass for someone special? ”
His breathing has changed—faster, shallower. Almost imperceptibly, he shifts his weight, and I allow my gaze to drop, trailing down his torso to the telltale bulge straining against expensive fabric.
“Look at that,” I whisper, emanating from every word. “Your cock seems considerably more honest than your mouth.”
I rest my hand on his forearm, feeling the tension vibrating through him. His pupils have dilated so much that his eyes appear almost black behind his mask.
“And if you’re a really good boy,” I add, letting my thumb trace small circles against his sleeve, “I might even let you sink into my ass. Would you like that, Elliot? To feel me clenching around you while I tell you exactly how to move?”
His jaw works, desire warring with years of denial.
Elliot’s face hardens suddenly, arousal visibly wrestling with his pride. He takes a deliberate step back, straightening his suit jacket with hands that aren’t quite steady.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Frost,” he hisses, but there’s no real venom in it—just the desperate flailing of a man caught in his own contradictions. “Not everyone’s as... fluid as you are.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t they?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he mutters something about needing another drink and strides away. His retreat is hasty but dignified—a perfect encapsulation of Elliot Chambers himself.
I watch him go, surprised by the intensity of my reaction.
My cock strains uncomfortably against my tailored pants, demanding attention I won’t give it—not here, anyway.
I’m no stranger to desire, but this feels different.
Usually, I pursue women, appreciating their softness, their curves, the delicate interplay of power that comes with seduction.
But there’s something enticing about Elliot—the contradiction between his public persona and what lurks beneath.
The careful way he’s constructed his image: successful art dealer, discerning collector, paragon of sophisticated masculinity.
Yet beneath those expensive clothes, his body tells a different story.
I’ve caught glimpses in the gym we both frequent—the tattoos crawling up his arms and across his chest, raw artwork on a man who trades in refinement.
What intrigues me most is the submission I sense in him—not weakness, but a natural inclination to yield that he fights at every turn. I wonder if anyone has ever offered him a haven for surrender, so he can let go of the exhausting performance he is giving.
I adjust myself discreetly, trying to ignore the ache between my legs. The fantasy of Elliot on his knees, his features breaking apart in pleasure as I take what he’s never admitted to wanting—it’s potent.
I swirl the remaining amber liquid in my glass, watching it catch the light.
My gaze drifts across Purgatory’s main floor, taking in the usual pageantry of the Hunt’s preliminary gatherings.
Women display themselves like exotic birds, although this years prey aren’t here.
These women wish they were participants.
Men prowl, establishing dominance before the real chase begins.
It provides a pre-hunt psychological calibration for the Hunters as well as the opportunity to size up the competition.
The Hunt has always been about the thrill of the chase.
But tonight, something’s shifted.
My eyes find Elliot again, watching how he composes himself at the bar, shoulders rigid beneath his tailored jacket. He orders another drink, downing half of it immediately. Rattled because of me.
And for once, I’m wondering if missing out on prey during the Hunt might be exactly what I want this year. Maybe I’ll hunt the hunter instead.
The idea settles in my mind with a stroke of fortuitous genius. Elliot Chambers presents a challenge far more intriguing than any woman the Blackwoods might parade before us.
Breaking through those walls, watching him struggle against desires he’s buried for a long time, forcing him to acknowledge what he truly wants... The satisfaction would eclipse any fleeting pleasure from the usual game.
Women during the Hunt expect pursuit. They understand the rules and prepare for them. But Elliot—he’d resist at every turn, fighting himself more fiercely than he’d fight me. His surrender, when it finally came, would be absolute.
I imagine finding him alone during the Hunt, cornering him, and watching realization dawn in those eyes when he understands he’s become my target.
My cock stiffens at the thought, and I adjust my stance casually, allowing myself to savor the building anticipation.
Yes, this Hunt will be different. Let the others chase their designated quarry. I’ve identified a far more satisfying prize.