Chapter 2
Chapter Two
We all take off, running as if in formation across the meadow full of tall grass studded with yellow flowers.
Buttercups? But I have to run; no time to think.
My legs pump, adrenalin driving me on despite the hard ground and the stones under my feet.
I try to step carefully, but we’re going too fast, and I have no idea what the consequences might be if I slow down.
All I know is I must run, as fast as I can.
We get to the trees—more giant sequoias and oaks—and dash into the woods. I hear laughter from somewhere behind us and dash behind a tree.
“This way,” Jordan says, grabbing my arm and leading me off to the left.
I go with him as the others shoot off in different directions, and another slave I’ve never seen before, a hugely muscled Boy with short blond hair, follows us.
The three of us run, darting around the enormous trees, and my lungs are working as hard as my legs, drawing in the dark scents of the forest: the greenery and tree bark, grasses and the fallen leaves and branches making mulch in the earth.
I dare to look behind me, and I see one of the Masters in camouflage gear, an evil grin on his face as he stalks through the forest. And he has a gun.
A gun?
What the fuck?
They can’t actually be hunting us. If nothing else, we’re too valuable.
But that doesn’t stop my heart from racing, my blood hot in my veins.
Surely they wouldn’t…
“Jordan,” I manage to pant.
He doesn’t look up. He mutters, “Don’t stop. Don’t think. Just go.”
I take his advice and run as if my life depends on it. Perhaps it does. Who the fuck knows what deviant shit they have planned for us?
My body is getting into a rhythm now, pacing with Jordan, and I sink a bit into that rhythm in the same way I sometimes do when I’m being beaten.
The rhythm itself is some sort of magic.
Subspace, I suppose. Or at least, that’s what it was back in the day before I truly became a slave.
Subspace is a constant now. Slavespace. As I run I begin to notice my surroundings: the huge sequoias with their rough, dark red bark, and the sprawling oaks scattered here and there.
The moss everywhere, the deep green ferns in clumps at the base of the trees.
Jordan grabs my hand and pulls me sharply to the right, and I follow, but the other Boy does not. I hear the pounding of his feet as he runs, then soon, it’s just our feet, Jordan’s and mine.
But my lungs are beginning to burn. As fast as I know I am, I can’t keep up this pace for much longer, and I slow down.
“Go,” I tell him. “I have to catch my breath.”
“No…” he begins as he slows to a jog to stay beside me.
I look up at him, his exquisite face that is really too pretty for a Boy. His dark buzz cut. The intensity in his dark eyes.
“Jordan. You have to go.”
He gives my hand a squeeze, nods, and dashes ahead.
I stop, bending over and bracing my hands on my thighs, drawing in deep breaths as slowly as I can.
As my lungs recover, I realize I am completely alone in the woods, that the early summer air is cool beneath the canopy of leaves and smells of damp now.
I glance around, pausing to listen, but there’s nothing but the silent woods, not even the rustle of birds in the trees.
Not even a breeze moving through the branches.
I’m a city girl, born and raised in L.A.
, but some sort of primal instinct kicks in and I sense I really am alone, certain no one else is in the immediate vicinity.
I jog between a pair of oaks, then downhill a bit, and soon a narrow creek comes into view.
I move toward it, my senses on high alert in case any of the Masters—the Hunters—are nearby.
That’s what they’ve become in my head. Hunters.
Predators in the forest. And from what Dahlia told us, we are in fact being hunted.
Which means I am prey.
Prey.
Yes.
I pause long enough to bend down and scoop some water into my cupped hands.
It’s clear and very cold, and I’m so thirsty I’m tempted to take a sip or two.
But, even city girl that I am, I know better than to risk drinking it, so I confine myself to splashing some of it on my face and neck.
Then I wade across the stream, careful not to slip on the smooth stones as the water ripples over my feet and swirls around my ankles.
Just as I reach the middle I hear a twig snap, and pulse racing, I glance to my right.
A doe stands with her front feet in the water, her huge brown eyes staring at me.
And I smile—I can’t help it. In this moment I feel a sort of kinship, as if I understand her on some deep level, as if she understands me in return.
Both of us prey. She lowers her head to drink for several moments in which I am filled with a sort of awe and joy and unity.
Then she lifts her dainty feet and walks off up the creek bed, disappearing around a bend, and I smile after her, standing there watching as she retreats.
Then there’s another sound. Footsteps?
Must get moving.
On the other side of the creek I climb the bank, and as I reach the top I hear a series of muffled gunshots. Crouching behind a bush with my heart once again a hammer in my chest, I peer around to see a Hunter with a gun shooting at a female slave, splattering her in blue paint.
Paintball.
Thank God that’s all it is. Did I really think they’d have bullets?
Maybe I did. This whole adventure has been an extraordinary mindfuck in a way nothing has ever been before.
She goes down with a groan. I’ve heard the paintballs hurt like hell. But this I can handle.
I stay crouched, quiet, as he walks over to her and yanks her upright by the hair. He pulls a walkie-talkie from his belt and speaks into it.
“I’ve got one! Coming in.”
He drags her off by her hair, and I can only imagine her fate.
Will she be put into a cage? Used for the entertainment of all the Hunters? Made to run again? Or kept for his personal abuse?
This is the true mindfuck, isn’t it? Keeping us guessing. And it’s working like a fucking charm. I have no idea what will happen to me if I am caught. Or what might happen if I’m not. Will the punishment be worse if I’m able to elude them? Or is that truly the key here?
Another surge of fear runs through me, goosebumps rising on my skin, and I run to the right, following the edge of the creek until I lose it completely.
I keep running, legs pumping, lungs on fire, but I can’t stop.
Not now. Not ever. I don’t understand what this is, what will happen.
I was told to run, and I do, tears streaming down my face.
I dash into a small clearing and have a split second to realize my foot is caught in something before I hear a sharp snap, and I am lifted—no, not lifted, but snapped up as if into the jaws of a great beast. I scream as a net swallows me and I fly up into the air.
I hang there in midair, fighting against the net, but I know I am trapped.
No. I have been trapped. This is the oldest hunting trick in the book, isn’t it?
I’m held tight in the net as I swing from a tree branch, all of my limbs crouched and tight against my body. How long before someone finds me?
One hand is free enough for me to wipe the tears from my eyes.
Stop it.
I’m so fucking mad that I’m crying, and soon I’m angry enough to quiet my tears.
The net is made of rough, toothy rope, and it digs into my skin, but it’s not too bad. The bad part is wondering if I’m to be left here all night.
Time passes, but I don’t know if it’s been an hour or ten minutes. I tell myself to wait. Not that I really have any other option.
Inhale, exhale.
I’ve been made to wait often enough, haven’t I? This is no different than being chained up at the foot of my Mistress’s bed, awaiting her pleasure—or her pain.
“Ah, there she is,” a male voice says. He has a slight accent I can’t quite identify. “Our prize, Erek.”
“Oh, this is excellent, Séverin. It’s a Girl, yes? Let’s get her down and take a good look at her.”
Peering through the net, I can just make them out. The one called Séverin is tall, elegant even in his hunting clothes—perfectly pressed khaki trousers and shirt. A bit older; fifty, perhaps? Possibly older. His hair is a striking silver. He looks harsh. Stern. I’m a little in love already.
The other man—the other Hunter—is out of sight, but he is apparently doing something to lower the net I’m caught in. I go down slowly, inch by inch, until I’m on the ground, and he’s standing over me, cutting the net with a large hunting knife.
My heart is a hammer again. Will he cut me? I can take knife play, of course, but it still frightens me, as it’s meant to.
When the pieces of net fall aside I am left crouching on the ground, being careful to keep my head bowed in submission.
And I’m surprised when one of them says in a gentle tone, his fingers beneath my chin, raising my head up, “Look at me, Girl. Let us see your pretty face.”
I do as I’m told—of course I do—and meet his calm blue eyes.
Oh, but he’s lovely, with strong, squared features and long blonde hair tied back, a few wisps escaping around his frankly beautiful face.
His mouth is lush, without a hint of cruelty, which I know is a ruse.
The Masters never fail in their cruelty.
It’s something we count on. But I love the contrast, the illusion of softness.
I hope this Hunter will take me with him, and I cannot wait to see how hard a Master he might be.