Chapter 10
JULIAN
Elliot flees like a startled deer, feet bare against the polished floor. The sight should amuse me—another man’s panic is usually entertaining—but something twists in my chest instead.
Gentle coaxing isn’t going to work with him. That much is clear.
I take my time getting dressed, considering my next move. Elliot Chambers is a man who’s built his entire identity around denial. Decades of repression telling him he’s wrong, perverted, broken. You don’t dismantle that kind of conditioning with a few kind words and a prostate massager.
No, what Elliot needs is to have the choice taken away from him.
His body knows what it wants—that much was obvious from how desperately he responded to my touch, how quickly he hardened in my mouth, how his muscles clenched around that toy. But his mind is still fighting, still clinging to the lie he’s been telling himself his entire life.
I smile at my reflection. Dubious consent has always been a particular favorite of mine. There’s something exquisite about pushing someone past their boundaries, watching resistance crumble into surrender.
I’ll need to corner him somewhere he can’t escape. Pin him down. Most likely restrain him. Force pleasure on him until he breaks through that wall of shame. Make it impossible for him to deny what his body is screaming for.
“You can run, Elliot,” I murmur to my reflection, “but you won’t get far.”
I’ve spent my life enjoying understanding the intricate psychology of desire and resistance.
Elliot is a classic case of repression—the harder he fights his true nature, the more violently it will eventually emerge.
All he needs is someone to shatter those chains for him, to force him past that final barrier.
I pull on my pants and mask before exiting the mirrored chamber, scanning the dimly lit corridor for any sign of Elliot. The hallway stretches empty in both directions—no sound of retreating footsteps, nothing to indicate which way he fled.
I glance at my watch, tapping the screen to bring up the tracking interface.
The six female prey appear as glowing dots.
No dot for any of the hunters, it's a part of the game that, at this moment, I curse beneath my breath, then chuckle to myself. “Clever system,” I murmur. “The game wasn’t designed for hunters to become prey.”
Of course. Since the watches only track the designated prey—the women who signed up to be hunted tonight, I’ll get no help there. Just as well, the way he runs for me is intoxicating.
This changes the dynamic. I can’t simply follow a blinking dot to where Elliot is hiding. I’ll need to think like him, anticipate where a man amid a sexual identity crisis might run to ground. The maze is vast—three floors of maze corridors, themed rooms, and secluded alcoves. He could be anywhere.
I stand perfectly still, considering my options. Elliot wouldn’t go to the main floor—too many witnesses.
“Hide and seek it is,” I say to the empty hallway.
The challenge is appealing. There’s something primal about hunting without technological aids, relying purely on instinct and knowledge of one’s prey. Most hunters tonight are simply following their watches to claim their prize. But this—this requires skill. Patience.
I begin walking, my footsteps silent. My senses heighten as I scan each doorway, each shadow, listening for the sound of panicked breathing or the rustle of movement.
The maze shifts around me, corridors branching in multiple directions. I pause at each intersection, weighing my options. If I were a man fleeing his own desires, where would I go? Not up to the main floor, where others might see his disheveled state. Perhaps down to the lower levels.
A muffled groan cuts through the silence, drawing my attention to a partially open door to my right. I slow my approach, stepping carefully to remain undetected.
The muffled sounds grow clearer as I approach. I recognize Vane’s growl before I see him—that distinctive rumble. I pause at the threshold, curiosity overriding my hunt for Elliot.
Through the crack, I glimpse them on a leather chaise. Lia Morgan—one of tonight’s designated prey—is straddling Vane, her head thrown back. But this is no standard Hunt capture. Her wrists aren’t bound; she’s in control of her movements, grinding against him with deliberate, confident strokes.
What catches my attention is the gleam of red. Vane holds a small blade, drawing it delicately across her collarbone. The thin line wells with blood—a shocking crimson against her olive skin. Instead of flinching, Lia arches into the cut, a throaty moan escaping her lips.
“More,” she demands, voice husky with desire. “Deeper this time.”
Vane’s green eyes flash with dangerous excitement behind his mask as he complies, creating another line parallel to the first. He leans forward, tongue tracing the wound, collecting her blood with evident elation.
“You taste like fucking heaven,” he growls against her skin.
Lia laughs—not the nervous giggle of prey caught in a predator’s jaws, but the confident sound of a woman getting exactly what she wants. “And you said I wouldn’t be able to handle your particular... appetites.”
She reaches between them, grasping him roughly as she repositions herself. “I want to feel you inside while you cut me again.”
This isn’t the coerced submission the Hunt is designed for. This is a woman who embraces the darkness as eagerly as the man inflicting it.
I tear my gaze away from Vane and Lia. As fascinating as their power dynamic is, I have my own prey to find.
The corridor stretches before me, dimly lit and eerily quiet after the sounds of pleasure from the room I just passed. I scan the polished floor, searching for any sign of Elliot’s hasty departure.
That’s when I notice them—a trail of sweaty footprints leading left at the next junction.
“There you are,” I murmur, satisfaction curling through me.
The prints are unmistakable—bare feet, too large to be a woman’s.
The moisture from his sweat has left perfect impressions on the sleek floor.
Each footprint is farther apart than normal walking would produce—he’s been running, desperate to put distance between himself and the pleasure he can’t admit he craves.
I follow the trail, taking my time. No need to rush when your prey has so conveniently marked his path. The footprints grow fainter as I progress, the sweat drying with each step he took, but the direction is clear enough.
Left at the junction, then straight past two doorways, then another left. He’s heading deeper into the maze, away from the main areas where other hunters might be.
Smart, but ultimately futile.
I run my fingers along the wall as I walk, savoring the anticipation. Elliot can’t hide forever. The Hunt has hours left, and I’m nothing if not patient.
The corridor ahead branches again, and I pause, studying the fading prints. They continue left, toward what I believe is a service area—storage rooms and staff facilities. A good place to hide or at least catch one’s breath.
I follow the trail of footprints down another corridor. The maze of Purgatory seems to shift around me, corridors bleeding into one another in a labyrinth designed for sin and secrecy. I pause at another junction, listening for any sound that might betray Elliot’s location.
Then I hear it—voices murmuring from around the corner.
“—can’t keep doing this to yourself.” The voice is smooth, cultured.
Theo Winters.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Elliot’s voice, strained and defensive.
I flatten myself against the wall, keeping just out of sight. The corridor ahead opens into a small alcove, dimly lit in red. Perfect.
“Come on, Elliot. I’ve watched you for years at these events. Always hunting women you don’t really want, always running from what you do.”
A harsh laugh from Elliot. “Is this the part where you tell me you understand me better than I understand myself?”
“No. This is the part where I tell you I’ve been exactly where you are.”
I shift slightly, angling for a better position to hear. The cool wall presses against my shoulder as I stand perfectly still, controlling my breathing.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Theo continues, his voice softening. “The shame, the hiding. There are men here who would—”
“Stop.” Elliot’s voice cracks. “Just stop.”
I smile in the darkness. Poor Theo, always so sincere, so earnest in his approach. He doesn’t understand that men like Elliot don’t respond to gentle coaxing. They need to be broken open.
“Julian was right about you,” Theo says after a moment.
My name in his mouth makes me pay closer attention. This is getting interesting.
“What did he say?” Elliot’s voice has dropped, almost too quiet to hear.
“That you’re so deep in denial you’d rather suffer than admit what you want. What your body is starving for.”
I wait, patient as a viper, listening to the heavy silence between them. The air feels charged with Elliot’s panic. I imagine him backed against the wall, cornered by Theo’s understanding—a different kind of threat than my approach.
This is my moment. Caught between two hunters, Elliot will have nowhere to run.
“Well said, Theo.” I step around the corner, making my entrance with deliberate timing.
Elliot freezes, his eyes widening behind his mask. The color drains from his face as he registers my presence. His body tenses like a cornered animal, muscles coiling to flee.
“Going somewhere?” Theo asks, placing a hand on Elliot’s arm before he can bolt. His touch is gentle but unyielding.
I advance slowly, savoring the panic flashing across Elliot’s face. He’s caught between us now, Theo blocking one escape route, me cutting off the other. The red lighting casts shadows across his features, highlighting the conflict warring within.
“Julian,” he whispers, my name falling from his lips like a prayer.
Theo’s eyes meet mine over Elliot’s shoulder, and he winks—a subtle signal of alliance.
We’ve never worked together before, Theo and I.
We have, however fucked several times. Our approaches to pleasure are typically too different, and that’s why when we fuck it works—his is built on connection and understanding, mine on dominance and control.
But tonight, with this prey, perhaps a team effort is exactly what’s needed.
“You ran off before we finished,” I say, closing the distance between us. “That was rude.”
Elliot presses himself against the wall, looking desperately between us. “I’m not—this isn’t—”
“Still denying your true nature?” I circle to his other side, effectively surrounding him with Theo. “Your cock was hard enough to cut glass when I had you on your knees.”
Theo raises an eyebrow at that, his interest clearly piqued. “You’ve made progress, then.”
I laugh. “Progress and retreat. Our friend here can’t seem to decide what he wants.”
“Or rather,” Theo adds, “he knows exactly what he wants but can’t admit it.”
The game is evolving now. I can see the spark in Theo’s eyes—he will play the role well, the gentle counterpart to a harsher approach. Between us, we might finally break through the walls Elliot has built around himself.