Chapter 9
T here was no explanation.
No itinerary. No hint. No warning.
Just the quiet glide of Ronan’s hand against the small of my back as we stepped out of the restaurant into the velvet heat of Miami night. The city buzzed around us, but none of it touched me.
Only him.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask if I was comfortable, or ready, or sure. He just opened the door of a different black SUV—this one even sleeker than the last—and waited.
I slid in.
He followed.
The driver didn’t look at either of us. Just merged onto the road and disappeared into the thick pulse of traffic.
“Where are we going?” I finally asked, voice low.
Ronan turned his head toward me, the edge of a smirk playing at his mouth. “Somewhere ... wild.”
My pulse skipped. “That’s vague. ”
“Vague keeps you alert,” he said. “Sharpens your instincts.”
“Is this a ticketed event?”
He nodded once. “An invitation-only experience. One night. Controlled setting. You’ll be hunted.”
That last word sank its teeth into me.
Hunted.
The way he said it—casual, calm, like it wasn’t the most feral, dangerous thing a man could offer—sent a sharp thrill through me.
Because I’d asked for this.
No. I’d begged for it.
The memory flared, sudden and sharp—my fingers hovering over the keyboard, my heart hammering as I typed out the letter to Alpha Mail. No edits. No polish. Just raw need spilled into pixels:
I want to be hunted.
Someone dangerous. Someone who doesn’t ask.
I want to feel like I’m not supposed to be there.
Like I said the wrong thing, and now he’s here to make me regret it.
I hadn’t thought they’d take it literally. I hadn’t thought anyone would respond.
And now here I was.
In a city I didn’t recognize, with a man who could break me apart just to watch how I shattered.
And he was going to hunt me.
Just like I asked.
Just like I needed.
I stared at him. “Hunted by you?”
“Among others,” he said. “But you’re mine. They know that.”
I didn’t know what that meant—they—but I didn’t ask. Because the look in his eyes told me he wouldn’t answer. And maybe I didn’t want him to. Maybe it was better not to know the shape of the thing you were walking into. Maybe that’s what made it feel like a choice.
But mine .
That word curled around my spine like smoke.
Not a suggestion. Not a compliment. A claim.
And something in me—something dark and hidden and half-starved—responded to it like a flame to oxygen.
Because no one had ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not without apology or condition or some half-hearted attempt to make it sound romantic. He wasn’t trying to woo me. He wasn’t saying he loved me. He was saying he owned me.
And God help me, I wanted to be owned by this hulking, mysterious, beast of a man.
I felt the heat rise under my skin. Not embarrassment. Not shame. Just raw, unfiltered awareness of my body and his. Of the distance between us, and the way it suddenly felt too far.
He wasn’t even touching me.
But I could feel him everywhere.
In my pulse. In the ache between my legs. In the way I sat straighter without meaning to, like my body was trying to present itself for inspection.
Because I was his. Had been from the second I felt his presence in Charleston and saw the man Alpha Mail had chosen.
Now there was no going back.
Not from this.
Not from him.
The SUV curved through a series of residential streets before joining a long, empty stretch of highway. The city lights fell away. We passed only palm trees and darkness until I saw the sign: Zoo Miami.
Closed. Or so I thought.
We turned down a service road and came to a security gate manned by someone in a dark uniform. No words were exchanged—just a clipboard glance and a nod. The gate opened.
My heart pounded.
“Why a zoo?” I whispered.
“Because it strips away the illusion,” Ronan said simply. “Of civilization. Of safety. Of who you think you are when you’re not watched.”
“And I’m the prey?”
He leaned in, and just smiled.
The SUV rolled to a stop near a back entrance. Beyond it, the buildings were dark. No families. No signs of life. Just silhouettes of palms and low architecture, backlit by the eerie glow of overhead lights.
He turned to me and held out something small.
An earpiece.
Again.
“Put it in,” he said. “You won’t see me after this. Not for a while.”
I blinked. “You’re leaving me?”
“I’m hunting you.”
I swallowed hard. “What are the rules?”
His fingers brushed mine as he handed over a slim black band. A bracelet.
“You wear this. It tracks you. You can tap it once if you’re in real danger. Twice if you want out completely. But if you tap, it’s over.”
“And if I don’t?”
His eyes darkened. “Then I’ll find you. And when I do ... ”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t have to.
I slid the earpiece in. Fastened the bracelet around my wrist. The SUV door opened.
Warm air. Damp. Heavy. Alive.
I stepped into it, heart pounding.
Inside the gated entrance, a woman in black waited with a tablet. She looked professional. Beautiful. Like the concierge of a luxury hotel. She didn’t introduce herself. Didn’t explain anything.
“Miss Hughes,” she said. “Please follow me.”
My real name. Hearing it here felt like a punch. A reminder that I still existed outside of this. That I could walk away.
But I didn’t.
She led me to a locker room, handed me a slim black satchel, and gestured to a row of changing stalls.
“Clothes are provided. Change. Leave everything else.”
Inside the bag was a black bodysuit—sleek and breathable, somewhere between tactical gear and lingerie. High-cut legs. Sleeveless. Zips in the front. A pair of tight black shorts. Fingerless gloves. Soft-soled shoes. Every item whispering run , while clinging like come find me .
I stripped down and changed.
No phone. No ID. No keys. Just my body and the slow burn of adrenaline taking root in my chest.
When I stepped out, the woman handed me a water bottle and a tiny flashlight.
Then: “You’ll begin at the aviary. Your time starts when the gates close.”
She didn’t say what time that was.
I found out thirty seconds later .
A quiet chime. The thunk of a steel door locking behind me.
And then?—
Nothing.
Silence.
Just the sound of my own breath.
The aviary was empty. Massive and shadowed, with low lighting and glass walls. Trees stretched toward the high ceiling, their branches heavy with leaves. Somewhere above, something rustled.
I moved.
Slow at first. Then faster.
The bracelet buzzed once. A pulse against my wrist.
My earpiece crackled to life.
“Good girl,” came Ronan’s voice. “You’re already running.”
I nearly moaned.
He sounded close.
But I couldn’t see him.
“I wonder,” he murmured. “Did you look at yourself in the mirror before you stepped into that bodysuit? Did you see the way your thighs pressed together? The way your nipples showed through the fabric? You don’t want to be hidden, Zara. You want to be hunted.”
I ducked behind a tree trunk, heart thundering.
“And I will find you.”
His voice cut out.
I didn’t know where to go. Or how far this arena extended. But I moved. Through a tunnel. Past a waterfall exhibit. The zoo felt endless at night—stripped down and strange. No crowds. No laughter. Just wild things watching from their enclosures. A panther paced behind a fence .
I wasn’t sure who was more dangerous—Ronan or the animals.
At one point, I caught sight of another woman ahead—tall, lean, moving fast.
So I wasn’t the only one.
But it didn’t matter.
Because he wasn’t after her.
He was after me.
And I felt it. That low hum inside. That primal need to be caught.
I turned a corner and stumbled into a dimly lit corridor. A reptile house.
The air in the reptile house was cooler, but no less oppressive.
Glass tanks lined the walls, shadows of stillness and menace behind each one—silent predators watching me watch them.
It was humid, dense, almost too quiet. My shoes made no sound on the floor, but my heartbeat thundered like a drumline.
And I ran.
Not out of fear. But hunger.
Because this was exactly what I’d asked for.
When I wrote that letter to Alpha Mail, it had poured out of me like blood from a fresh wound. I’d wanted to be hunted. To feel the panic and the pull. To look over my shoulder and see him there, closing in. Because it wasn’t about fear. Not really.
It was about inevitability.
About the ache of knowing I’d be caught, but not knowing when.
That thrill, that breathless anticipation, it was better than foreplay. It was foreplay.
I didn’t want candlelight and compliments. I didn’t want slow music or sweet promises. At least, not at first. I wanted a man who could stalk me through shadows and drag me to my knees when he found me.
I wanted the edge. The dark. The surrender.
Because I didn’t feel small in that surrender.
I felt seen.
Which was more than I could say for Trevor.
God. Trevor.
He would’ve hated every second of this. Would’ve called it performative or pathetic. Would’ve psychoanalyzed my “daddy issues” over brunch with a mimosa in one hand and a smug smile on his face.
He once told me he preferred women who were strong, like that was the opposite of being touched the way I wanted. Like needing to be taken was weakness, instead of proof that I was strong enough to give in.
Trevor had never made me come. Not once. He had thought rubbing my clit like a dial on a washing machine while mansplaining gerrymandering counted as intimacy.
He would’ve been horrified by this.
Which somehow made me want it more.
Because Trevor wanted a version of me that didn’t exist.
But Ronan?—
Ronan wanted this me.
The woman running through a pitch-black reptile house in nothing but a second-skin bodysuit, heart pounding, thighs slick, knowing she would be caught and claimed and maybe destroyed.
And God, I wanted to be destroyed.
A sound.
Somewhere behind me.
A footstep?
I whipped around. Nothing .
But my body responded anyway—heat blooming, breath quickening, pulse skittering against my wrist.