Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Cadence
“Players, set…” A speaker, from somewhere in the trees, crackles.
I look up into the canopy but can’t identify where the noise is coming from in the dark.
To my right, I hear the soft rustle of grass and crouch down, holding in my intake of breath. What was that? Who?
Fear tightens my limbs as I cock my head, listening to the darkness.
In the distance I hear masculine voices, grunting, calling out in barely contained aggression as they stomp their feet. I spread my hands out on the cool, damp ground as I take a long, slow breath of air.
The players must be on the other side of the field from me. It’s good to know I have that kind of head start, but I swear I feel the ground shake from their excitement.
This was a bad idea.
Which should not surprise me. I’m full of them. In fact, I’d say it’s the story of my life. Cadence Bad Idea Miller. That ought to be my name.
I tremble, sinking down lower to the ground. Is now the time to run? Hide?
The organizers assured me this was perfectly safe, but it doesn’t feel safe at all. In fact, it feels like…
My worst nightmare come to life.
My fingers curl into the dirt. Maybe that’s what I need. To face the fear that has eaten at me my entire adult life so that I can move past it and be…
Normal?
The thought makes my lips curl, and I straighten back up. Who wants to be normal? Boring.
I scrub a hand over my cheeks, pushing the thoughts away. This exact tug of war is what gets me in trouble every time. Part of me craves a quieter life and the other, seeks conflict and chaos.
I can’t sit still ever. Can’t stay in a job or a place. And forget about a relationship. Most times a guy pisses me off, and then I blow the whole thing up.
Most of the time I create the explosion with words. A few times, it’s gotten physical.
But growing up in foster care isn’t exactly the place to learn about balanced, kind reactions when dealing with other people. There is little that’s normal, or stable, in that environment. It’s the jungle.
And you either learn to fight or die.
And before foster care, I lived with my crackhead mother—talk about instability. The shit I saw by the time I was six…
That thought makes me stand straight and tall. I’m a girl who knows how to fight. And that is what I do today. I fight.
If one of those jackasses on the other side of the field thinks I’m just going to submit to him, he’s got another thing coming. If he wants me, he’s going to have to work for it.
I give myself a shake. The organizer of this event told me that The Hunt was a way for me to rewrite my brain to respond differently to danger. To not react so violently, so emotionally.
But now that I’m here, I’m thinking, fuck that. I’m going to fight. My chaos goblin wants out.
I toss back my shoulders, getting ready, as a horn blast fills the air, the shrill sound so loud, for a moment I drop into a crouch again, holding my ears.
The sound slowly dies, echoing over the open air, replaced by the thunderous beat of men’s feet.
Despite my commitment to bravery, I shrink again, at least for a second. I’m tall for a woman, just over five feet eight inches, so cowering doesn’t help all that much.
Gathering myself up, I push my shock of red hair over my shoulder and move into the line of trees, jumping up to grab a branch and then swing myself up on the limb.
One of the high schools I attended had a rope-course adventure unit. It was one of the best times I had in school and I use the skills I learned now, settling into a crouch on the branch as the thundering footfalls of the men grow closer.
The man who agreed to let me compete, Dimitri Ivanov, told me some women fight, and some women hide, but all end up giving themselves to their chosen fighter. His words give me a one-second pause.
Am I going to surrender to a man? Try and set aside my past, ignore the restless energy inside me, and let a man claim me?
I doubt it.
Which is why, when a fighter veers toward my tree, my muscles tense, readying for the fight.
For a moment, I think he’s spotted me, but then he passes under my branch. I could stay hidden. Wait for one of them to find me, but that isn’t my style.
So, grabbing the branch again, I swing down, my feet slamming into his back as I push with all the weight and muscle I have. He lurches forward, flying through the air and lands on his stomach.
“Ha,” I shout into the night, adrenaline rushing through me. Fighting makes me feel powerful, in control, in a world where women are so often victims. Where I am a victim.
But either his fall or my gloating catches the notice of another man. Tall and broad, I no longer have the element of surprise.
And while I’m tall, I’m also slender, and no match for this guy in a one-to-one confrontation.
Unless …
I stand perfectly still, his advance making my muscles twitch with the effort not to move.
At the last possible second, when his massive hands are almost on me, I drop, punching out and hitting him square in the groin.
He drops like a stone, his cry of pain echoing through the field, but I don’t hesitate. Instead, I break out into a run, racing toward the field that the hunters have just exited.
But I haven’t made it more than two yards when fingers lock around my biceps in an iron grip.
I scream, a reflex I can’t control as the man yanks hard. I hit his chest, my jaw snapping shut, and I bite my own tongue, a cry of pain rushing through my lips.
But it doesn’t even slow him as he drops me to the ground, blood filling my mouth. He grabs the waist of my athletic leggings and rips them down my body.
I scream, paralyzing fear knocking the fight out of me. This was not part of the deal. I lash out with a hand, but before I can land the hit, he traps it in his, which is easily twice the size of mine.
I try again with my other hand, but he grabs that one too, pushing it up above my head with the other, like I’m not offering any resistance at all, and then locks both my wrists in his one hand.
Using his one free hand, he tears the leggings and then he starts to pull his pants down his hips, working his thighs between mine. “No,” I cry out, but my legs offer so little resistance.
This can’t be how it’s supposed to go. That I am forced to live out my worst nightmare. “Stop.” But the blood in my mouth gurgles my words. “Please stop.”
The please comes out jagged and raw, a word I don’t utter very often.
“Shut up,” he spits, grabbing my panties even as I gasp out a sob. He rips again, my underwear breaking like they’re made of paper.
I cry out and he raises his hand to smack my face. It comes down hard across my cheek, pain exploding through my skull. Blood sprays out of my mouth, misting his face. He doesn’t notice.
I squeeze my eyes shut, preparing for the invasion that’s about to come. I have this fleeting thought about my best friend, Ava .
I watched her be raped, a memory I dream often. Sometimes I’m me, stabbing her attacker in the neck, and sometimes…I’m her.
But the dreams didn’t prepare me for how this would actually feel. “Ava,” I whimper, knowing I’ve never fully understood her pain.
For how it would feel to be trapped like this, under a man who is immune to my suffering. I ache for me, but honestly, I ache for her. I haven’t given her enough grace. Enough love.
My thoughts are slammed back to the present as he bends down, his teeth sinking into my neck like some sick fucking animal. He’s about to break the flesh when from out of nowhere….
I hear the thud of flesh hitting flesh and suddenly I’m free. I sit up to see the man who’d just held me down laying in the dirt. Standing next to me, another fighter. I start to scurry away in a crab crawl, despite being naked from the waist down, when he bends down and catches my ankle.
I panic, kicking out, but his grip doesn’t tighten. His hand isn’t rough, just firm as he says in a quiet voice, “Settle, sweetheart.”
I blink back my surprise, the fear still tensing my limbs, as I note the rippling muscles on display in his tank top. He has on army-style pants, his hair cropped short. Soldier? “Are you going to try and rape me too?”
But I can already feel the difference. We’re talking, his eyes are calm, his touch deliberate, but not hostile.
Good God, he’s handsome. Not pretty at all, his features are rough and masculine, but they’re still nicely arrayed.
His eyes flick to the other man lying in the grass, growing diamond-hard before they return to mine, and then soften. “No, sweetheart. You’re safe with me.”
“Safe?” I ask, and my voice catches again. I swallow down my fear. There is no place for it here. “You’re not trying to…” I was going to say, get in my pants, but I don’t have any currently.
“We’re going to have sex. And we’re both going to love it. Promise.”