Chapter 4 - Julian
JULIAN
The air in Purgatory’s private lounge crackles with anticipation. Fifteen men in various states of relaxation, all eyeing the digital profiles displayed on the wall-mounted screens. Six women’s faces stare back at us, unaware they’re being assessed like prized livestock.
I swirl the scotch in my glass, savoring both the liquor and the electric tension in the room. My thoughts keep circling back to Elliot’s reaction in this very club two nights ago—the panic in his eyes betrayed by the unmistakable bulge in his pants. The perfect contradiction.
“She’s mine,” Knox Blackwood announces, gesturing toward a brunette’s profile with his crystal tumbler.
His brothers make similar declarations, each selecting their preferred prey with the confidence of men who’ve never lost a Hunt.
The rest of us understand the unspoken hierarchy—the Blackwoods get first choice.
Across the room, Dominic Vega huddles with Liam Hayes and Ryder Caldwell, their heads bent together in conspiratorial conversation. I drift closer, catching fragments as I pretend to study the profile of a dancer named Keira.
Liam nods. “Her father’s destroyed each of our businesses in different ways.”
“Three hunters, one prey,” Ryder adds with a wolfish grin. “She won’t stand a chance.”
So, they’re planning to work together to capture Cora Pike. Interesting. Not the usual approach, but effective if they pull it off. Dominic must have pulled strings to get her name on the invitation list—a personal vendetta disguised as a game.
I briefly consider pursuing Cora myself to spite them. But three against one? Not worth the effort when there’s a more intriguing target already in my sights.
The Dexter twins have claimed Keira, circling her profile like sharks scenting blood. The remaining women have various hunters eyeing them with interest.
My gaze drifts across the room, landing on Elliot. He’s standing alone, nursing a drink while pretending to study the profiles. But I catch him—his eyes aren’t on the women at all. They’re on me.
When our eyes meet, I offer a slow, deliberate wink.
The flush spreads across his face instantly. He jerks his head away, suddenly fascinated by the contents of his glass.
Perfect. My prey is already responding beautifully.
“Julian,” a familiar voice purrs behind me. “You’re looking particularly delicious tonight.”
I turn to find Theo Winters sliding into my personal space. His dark eyes hold that familiar hunger, and his full lips curve into a knowing smile.
“Theo,” I acknowledge, maintaining enough coolness in my tone to establish boundaries without completely shutting him down. It’s a delicate balance—one I’ve perfected over years of navigating Ravenwood’s elite circles.
He places a hand on my forearm, fingers tracing the fabric of my tailor made suit. “I was hoping we might... reconnect this hunt. Last Hunt was quite memorable, wasn’t it?”
Images flash through my mind—Theo bent over, taking everything I gave him with enthusiastic abandon. He has certain talents that rival those of most women I’ve been with. There’s something about the way he surrenders completely while maintaining his dignity that’s always been intriguing.
“It was,” I admit. “But I have other plans this time.”
His eyes flick toward Elliot, then back to me with newfound understanding. “Ah. Fresh meat? I should have known. You always did enjoy a challenge.”
“Something like that.”
Theo leans closer, his cologne filling my senses. “When you’re done with him, my door is always open. The women will be claimed early as usual. The Blackwoods and those three conspiring over there,” he nods toward Dominic, Liam, and Ryder, “they’re particularly hungry this year.”
“And you’ll be waiting to console the unsuccessful hunters,” I observe dryly.
He doesn’t deny it, simply smiles. “We all have our niches in the Hunt. Mine happens to be... cleanup duty.”
“Not this time for me,” I say, my eyes drifting back to Elliot, who’s watching our interaction with poorly disguised interest. “I’ve found my prey already.”
Theo follows my gaze toward Elliot and chuckles. “You’ll struggle with that one. I’ve tried.”
“You have?” This piques my interest. I hadn’t realized Theo had already made attempts.
“Several times.” Theo sips his drink, eyes glinting with amusement. “Elliot’s clearly bisexual or perhaps even gay, but he’s too closeted to admit it. I’ve seen how he looks at men when he thinks no one’s watching—especially at my club’s more... uninhibited events.”
I study Elliot across the room, noting the tense way he holds himself, like a man perpetually afraid of giving something away. “What happened when you approached him?”
“Panic. Denial. The usual.” Theo shrugs one shoulder. “He practically ran from me, then showed up the next week with some blonde on his arm, making sure I saw them together. Classic overcompensation.”
The information only makes the challenge more enticing.
“His gallery shows are fascinating,” Theo continues. “He curates these exhibitions with such obvious homoerotic undertones, then gives the most painfully heteronormative explanations during interviews. It’s like watching someone build a cage around themselves piece by piece.”
“Perhaps he needs the right incentive to step outside that cage,” I murmur.
Theo gives me a knowing look. “And you think you’re that incentive?”
“I know I am.” The confidence in my voice isn’t feigned. I’ve seen the way Elliot responded to me—the visceral reaction he couldn’t hide.
“Well, the Hunt certainly creates... opportunities.” Theo traces the rim of his glass. “When the normal rules of society are suspended, even the most tightly wound can unravel.”
I nod, already mapping out my approach. The women will scatter through the club’s extensive maze, hunters in pursuit. But I’ll be hunting different prey altogether.
“Just don’t break him completely,” Theo adds, a hint of genuine concern in his voice. “Some cages protect as much as they confine.”
I leave Theo with a parting nod. Elliot is standing alone near the bar, feigning interest in the profiles on the screen while sneaking glances in my direction.
The moment he realizes I’m walking toward him, his muscles tense.
His fingers tighten around his glass, knuckles whitening with the pressure.
How fascinating to witness someone’s internal conflict displayed so clearly on their exterior.
His eyes dart around, seeking an escape route, but he knows running would only confirm what he’s trying so desperately to deny.
The prey’s instinctive response to approaching danger—yet he remains rooted in place.
“Elliot,” I say, my voice deliberately smooth as I close the distance between us. “Enjoying the selection this year?”
His throat works as he swallows. “Just—just scoping out the competition.”
“Is that what we are? Competitors?” I position myself beside him, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch. The subtle flinch that ripples through him is delicious. “I was under the impression we might have mutual interests.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he mutters, but his eyes betray him, dropping momentarily to my lips before jerking back up.
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Your pulse is racing.” I don’t touch him, but my gaze flicks to the visible throb at his neck. “You look like you’re about to bolt. Relax, Elliot. No one’s watching us.”
His eyes widen slightly, the panic there unmistakable. It’s the expression of a man who fears his innermost thoughts are somehow visible to everyone around him.
“I’m not—” he begins, but I cut him off with a slight shake of my head.
“Relax,” I repeat, taking a deliberate sip of my drink. “We’re just two colleagues discussing the Hunt. Nothing more than that.”
The relief that washes over his face is almost comical—as though I’ve offered him a script he can follow, a context that allows him to stand here with me without confronting what’s really happening between us.
“So,” Elliot clears his throat, eyes darting to the digital profiles of the women, “who do you have your eyes on tonight? For the Hunt?”
I allow a slow smile to spread across my face, savoring the nervous energy radiating from him. His question is transparent—an attempt to normalize our conversation, to pull us back into the expected exchange of predators discussing female prey.
“I think you already know the answer to that question, Elliot.” I deliberately let my gaze travel down his body, lingering long enough that he shifts uncomfortably. “I’ve selected my prey quite carefully.”
He grips his glass tighter, knuckles turning white. “There are six women to choose from,” he insists, desperation creeping into his voice.
“And yet none of them interests me nearly as much as you do.” I move closer, not touching him but entering his personal space. “I’ve been wondering something, Elliot.”
“What?” The word comes out barely above a whisper.
“Have you thought about what I described to you the other night?” I keep my voice low, intimate. “About what I might do to you when the women are claimed by others?”
The flush spreading across his face tells me everything before he even speaks. His pupils dilate visibly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he manages.
“No?” I lean closer, my lips nearly brushing his ear. “You haven’t been thinking about being on your knees? About my hand in your hair, guiding you exactly where I want you?”
He trembles, and I press my advantage.
“Tell me, Elliot,” I whisper, “did you stroke that beautiful cock of yours while thinking about it? About being my good boy?”
His sharp intake of breath is audible even over the ambient noise of the room. His face flushes crimson, and I know I’ve hit the mark.
His reaction confirms what I’ve suspected all along. The way he froze when I called him good boy, the visible shudder—it’s textbook. Elliot Chambers has a praise kink that could be exploited.
“Why don’t we continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable?” I suggest, gesturing toward the private dining area where pre-Hunt refreshments have been laid out. “The event doesn’t begin for hours. We might as well enjoy ourselves.”
Elliot hesitates, clearly torn between the desire to flee and the compulsion to follow. The latter wins out—as I knew it would.
“Just dinner,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
I lead him to a quiet corner table, away from the other hunters who are still strategizing their pursuits. The Blackwood brothers hold court at the center table, while the Dexter twins hover near the bar, eyes locked on Keira’s profile.
“You know,” I say as we settle with our plates, “you performed admirably at last year’s Hunt. The way you tracked that redhead through the east wing showed real instinct.”
His shoulders straighten slightly at the praise, a subtle shift that speaks volumes.
“It wasn’t that impressive,” he demurs.
“Don’t sell yourself short. It was excellent work.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “I appreciate a man who knows how to pursue what he wants with... determination.”
His eyes briefly meet mine before darting away, but that momentary connection reveals everything—the hunger, the conflict, the desperate need for approval.
Throughout our meal, I sprinkle in casual praise—his knowledge of wine, his insights about the other hunters, his impeccable taste in clothing. Each compliment lands like a carefully placed arrow, piercing through his defenses. By dessert, he’s leaning toward me subconsciously, hanging on my words.
The Hunt begins in three hours, and my anticipation builds with each passing minute. While others prepare to chase women through Purgatory’s elaborate grounds, I’ll be pursuing a different kind of prey—one already half-snared in my web.
Elliot Chambers, with his walls down, on his knees, desperate to be a good boy for me—now that will be a true victory.