Chapter 17 Lia
LIA
Istare at the thick parchment in my hands, reading the terms for the fifth time. The contract sits beside me on the couch, black ink stark against cream paper, each clause more outrageous than the last.
“This can't be legal,” I whisper to my empty apartment.
The Hollow's Hunt. An exclusive event where five women agree to be hunted by fifteen masked men through a maze built within Purgatory for seventy-two hours.
The men pursue; the women evade. If caught, the woman belongs to her captor for whatever desires he wishes to fulfill—for the remainder of the Hunt and potentially a full year afterward.
My fingers trace over the paragraph detailing the claiming ceremony. A ritual where the hunters publicly stake their claim on their prey. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the temperature in my apartment.
In my five years at The Red Room, I'd seen and done things that would make vanilla people blush. I'd surrendered control, been bound, flogged, and edged until I begged. But nothing like this. This is beyond edge play. This is... primal play.
“Relinquishing all rights to refuse for seventy-two hours,” I read aloud, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
I should be horrified. I should be calling the police, or at the very least, throwing this invitation in the shredder. Instead, heat pools between my thighs, my pulse quickening with each reread of the terms.
I set the invitation aside and pace my living room, arms wrapped around myself. The rational part of my brain lists all the reasons this is insane—the danger, the lack of proper safety protocols, the fact that Vane fucking Blackwood is involved.
But another part—the part I've tried to suppress since leaving New York—whispers how exhilarating it would be. To be pursued, captured, claimed. To surrender so completely, with no safe word, no limits, no control.
“Even if it's not Vane who catches me,” I murmur, then pause, surprised by my own admission.
Is that what I want? After fifteen years of running, do I want him to finally catch me?
I set the invitation down and lean back against my couch, memories of last night flooding my senses.
God, what was I thinking? Riding my favorite silicone toy while Vane's name fell from my lips like a prayer.
After fifteen years, I should be over him.
One night—one fucking night as teenagers—shouldn't have this hold on me.
But it does.
I close my eyes and the sensation returns—my hips rising and falling as I imagined it was him inside me instead of cold silicone. My body still aches from how hard I came, how desperately I fucked myself while pretending my own fingers on my breasts were his.
“Pathetic,” I whisper to myself.
Fifteen years. Countless men. Several women.
Experienced Doms who knew exactly how to bend me to their will at The Red Room.
I've had partners who studied the art of pleasure, who knew how to read my body better than I did.
Partners who spent hours bringing me to the edge only to deny me until I begged.
None of them was Vane.
I've tried everything to exorcise him from my system.
I've dated men who looked nothing like him.
Men who were gentle where he was rough. I've knelt for Doms who had decades of experience in the lifestyle, who could tie knots that would make sailors envious, who knew exactly how much pain mixed with pleasure would make me transcend.
And every single time, in the back of my mind, I compared them to an eighteen-year-old boy who took my virginity on prom night.
What kind of spell did Vane Blackwood cast that even New York City's most elite BDSM club couldn't break?
I stare at the dotted line on the last page of the contract, my pen hovering just above it.
The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop, to tear up this invitation and forget I ever saw it.
But my body has other ideas—my heart races, my skin flushes with heat, and there's an undeniable throb between my thighs that I can't ignore.
“This is insane,” I whisper, yet I'm already lowering the pen to paper.
My signature flows across the line in dark ink, the curves and loops of my name sealing my fate. The moment the pen lifts from the paper, a strange calm washes over me. Decision made.
I fold the contract carefully and slide it back into the black envelope. No going back now. The thought should terrify me, but instead, a delicious shiver runs down my spine. I'm going to be hunted. Pursued. Caught.
Maybe by Vane.
I pull out my phone and open the Uber app, fingers tapping against the screen.
Five minutes until my ride arrives. Just enough time to change into something more appropriate for a visit to Purgatory.
I slip into a sleek black dress that hugs my curves, paired with stiletto heels that make my legs look a mile long.
If I'm delivering my consent to be hunted, I might as well look the part.
The notification chimes—my driver is outside. I grab the black envelope, pausing briefly to run my fingers over its expensive paper. Inside these pages, I've just agreed to surrender my control, my body, my will to whoever catches me. The thought sends another pulse of arousal through me.
“Stop overthinking,” I tell myself as I lock my apartment door. “It's just a game.”
But as I slide into the back seat of the Uber and give the driver Purgatory's address, I know I'm lying to myself. This is more than a game.
And that's exactly why I can't resist it.
The bouncer at Purgatory's entrance doesn't even ask for identification. One look at the black envelope in my hand and he steps aside, the heavy door swinging open to reveal the thrum of bass and the scent of expensive cologne.
I stride in, shoulders back, chin high. The confidence isn't entirely manufactured—there's something freeing about having made my decision, about embracing whatever chaos awaits me during the seventy-two hours of the Hunt. My heels click against the polished floor as I scan the main room.
Xavier Blackwood sits at the bar, a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand, his attention focused on a tablet in front of him.
Even from here, I can see the family resemblance—the same strong jawline as Vane, the same imposing presence—but where Vane radiates barely contained energy, Xavier exudes cold, controlled composure.
Perfect.
I approach him directly, weaving through the sparse early-evening crowd. Up close, his tailored suit probably costs more than a month's salary at my gallery. When I stop beside him, his steel-gray eyes flick up, assessing me with clinical precision.
“Lia Morgan,” he says, his voice a smooth baritone. He doesn't offer his hand. “You've grown up.”
“So have you, Xavier.” I place the black envelope on the bar between us. “I believe this belongs to your organization.”
His gaze drops to the envelope, then back to my face. A slight smile curves his lips, not reaching his eyes. “Interesting. I expect my brother would want this delivered to him personally.”
“I'm sure he would.” I maintain eye contact, refusing to be intimidated. “But I prefer to deliver it to you.”
Xavier picks up the envelope, tapping it thoughtfully against the bar.
“You always were clever, even in high school. I remember Vane complaining about that.” He slides the envelope into his jacket.
“Welcome to the Hunt, Ms. Morgan. I am looking forward to seeing what you're truly capable of,” Xavier says, taking a sip of his drink.
“I remember you taking Vane down a peg or two in debate club. Not many people managed that.”
I can't help but smile. “Someone had to. His ego was already the size of Jupiter.”
“More like the entire solar system.” Xavier chuckles, a surprisingly warm sound from someone who presents such a cold exterior. “There was that time he was convinced he'd win the science fair with that ridiculous volcano.”
“Oh god, the one that exploded all over Principal Greene?” I laugh, the memory vivid. “He was picking red dye out of his eyebrows for weeks.”
Xavier sets down his glass. “To be fair, the chemical reaction was impressive. Just not in the way Vane intended.”
“I thought he was going to combust right there in the gymnasium.” I shake my head, surprised at how easy this conversation feels. “Your brother never did handle embarrassment well.”
“Still doesn't.” Xavier's eyes crinkle at the corners. “You should see him when we beat him at poker night.”
“Let me guess—he flips the table?”
“Close. Last time he threw his cards at Knox and stormed out, only to return ten minutes later pretending nothing happened.”
We're both laughing when a shadow falls across the bar. The temperature in the room appears to drop ten degrees.
“What the fuck is this?”
Vane stands there, his green eyes burning with such intensity that I take an involuntary step back. His jaw is clenched tight, hands balled into fists at his sides. He's not looking at me, though—his murderous glare is fixed entirely on his brother.
“Problem, little brother?” Xavier asks.
Vane takes a step closer, his body vibrating with barely contained fury. “You accepted her contract? You weren't supposed to be involved in this.”
Xavier merely arches an eyebrow. “Ms. Morgan chose to deliver it to me. I was simply being polite.”
Vane steps between me and Xavier, his shoulders rigid with tension.
“Back off, X.” His voice drops to a dangerous growl as he grabs my wrist, his fingers circling the delicate bones with bruising force. “We need to talk. Now.”
Before I can protest, he's dragging me away from the bar, past curious onlookers, and through a dimly lit corridor lined with private rooms. The bass from the club pulses through the walls, matching the angry rhythm of my heartbeat.
“Get your hands off me,” I hiss, digging my heels into the polished floor. When he doesn't slow down, I twist my arm sharply and yank free, nearly stumbling in my stilettos. “I said, get off!”
Vane whirls around, backing me against the wall in one fluid motion. His palms slam against the surface on either side of my head, caging me in. The scent of his cologne fills my senses, making it hard to focus.
“You signed it,” he breathes, his face inches from mine. “You actually signed it.”
I tilt my chin up, refusing to be intimidated despite how my body betrays me with a shiver. “Obviously. Did you think I wouldn't?”
His green eyes darken as they roam over my face, lingering on my lips. “I thought you'd run. It's what you do best, isn't it, wildflower? Run away from me.”
“Is that what you think?” I laugh, the sound sharp enough to make him blink. “God, your ego is still astronomical. Maybe I just had better things to do than orbit around you.”
“And yet here you are.” His lips curve into a smirk that makes my stomach flip. “Back in my gravity well.”
“I came back for a job opportunity, not for you.”
“A job I made possible.” His thumb traces my jawline, feather-light. “And now you've signed up for my Hunt. There's nowhere to run this time.”
I bat his hand away, irritation flaring. “Why do you assume I'd want to run? Maybe I'm looking forward to the Hunt.” I lean in closer, my lips almost brushing his ear. “Maybe I'm curious to see if anyone can actually catch me.”
I swear his pupils dilate at my challenge. Something dark and primal flashes across Vane's face as he presses closer, eliminating what little space remains between us. His breath fans hot against my cheek.
“You think this is a game?” His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “You think I'm going to let some other man put his hands on you?”
The intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. This isn't just desire or lust—it's pure, unfiltered possession.
“The Hunt has rules, Vane. Fifteen hunters, five women usually, six this time. The odds aren't exactly in your favor.” I try to keep my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart.
His hand slides up to curl around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there—a reminder of his strength, of how easily he could take what he wants. “No one else will fucking touch you.” The words come out as a growl. “If they do, I'll strangle them to death.”
A chill runs down my spine, not entirely from fear. “I saw the rules. No violence between hunters. You'd be disqualified.”
“Fuck the rules.”
He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that I believe him completely. Vane Blackwood would break every rule just to keep me to himself. The realization floods me with an unexpected sense of power.
Fifteen years, countless achievements, a successful career—and still, I'm the one thing he'd risk everything for.
“You'd really do that?” I ask, my voice barely audible over the muffled bass from the club. “Break your own rules?”
His thumb traces my bottom lip, eyes never leaving mine. “For you? I'd burn this whole fucking place to the ground.”
I straighten my spine and force a laugh that sounds more confident than I feel. His hand rests against my throat, but I refuse to show how it affects me.
“Burn Purgatory to the ground? That's a bit dramatic, even for you.” I push his hand away, creating space between us. “Besides, I'm not some prize to be fought over. I signed up for the Hunt knowing exactly what it entails.”
Vane's jaw tightens, but I continue before he can speak.
“Fifteen hunters, normally five women, but this year six, and no guarantees. That's what makes it exciting, doesn't it?” I smooth down my dress, casually stepping sideways out of his cage. “Maybe your brother Landon will find me first. He always did have that quiet charm about him.”
Vane's eyes flash dangerously. “You wouldn't—”
“Or Xavier,” I cut in, enjoying the way his face darkens. “He's certainly grown into his confidence. We were just having such a nice chat before you interrupted.”
“Lia.” My name sounds like a warning on his lips.
I shrug, taking another deliberate step back. “May the best hunter win, Vane. That's how your game works, right?”
With a smile, I turn and walk away, my heels clicking steadily against the polished floor.
Behind me, I hear it—a low, animalistic growl that sends shivers racing down my spine. It takes everything in me not to look back, not to see the expression on his face. I keep walking, shoulders back, hips swaying just enough to make a point.
He doesn't follow. I don't hear footsteps behind me, just that primal sound of frustration fading as I increase the distance between us.