Chapter 3
Chapter Three
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Ishiver as the pull of viridescent light draws me down a cold, damp corridor and into an open room that reminds me of a World War II air raid shelter. The air is chillier here, the frigidity seeping into my bones.
Metal sheets line the ceiling of the room, the buzz of murmured voices and shrills of excitement echoing off it.
Men group together on one side of the room, an array of half-naked bodies and masked faces that turn when I enter.
To the right of me, five women congregate, separated by an invisible line down the middle of the room.
The forum I’d come across only explained so much.
A capture the flag type of game. The rules are simple: claim the flag and make it until dawn.
Easy enough to follow; I’d played the game in high school—a version of it, anyway.
The stakes were obviously different from now, and from the comments in the thread, there were heavy mentions of sexual activity.
Women being chased and stripped in the forest, submitting to their desires at the hands of whoever had chased them down.
Nobody had mentioned winning, though I think that might have something to do with anonymity and the NDA everyone has to sign.
I still find it odd how the thread was still up, considering the strict rules on disclosing the details of the run. But I assume the excitement around it only draws more people to play the game.
Many commenters were women, expressing a multitude of deviant thoughts about the run, including how they wouldn’t mind having the opportunity to take part.
I’d laughed as I read through the thirsty comments about hulking men—hot, scary men, to be precise—with bodies that would make a nun wet, chasing them through the woods.
The feminist in me also scoffed at that one, but as I turn my attention to the rest of the room, I realize how right they were. They’re all walls of perfection: thick arms and chests, chiseled abs and tapered waists. Ink covering their bodies like works of art to be admired.
And I do.
Each body is more captivating than the last. They could easily pass as underwear models—you know, if that’s their thing. Not a single man here is undesirable and I practically hear the hum of desperation as I glance between the two sexes in the room.
I note that the men are in groups of three and four—I count twenty men in total. Several men wear masks that cover half of their faces, one group is in full gear that looks like they could be military of some sort, and another group of men who have decided anonymity isn’t a concern for them.
They’re the men who capture my attention first. Bodies carved from marble. Broad shoulders, hard chests, and rippling muscles that would put Greek gods to shame. Confidence clings to them as naturally as the ink covering their skin, and I’m having a hard time getting my thoughts in check.
I look past them to the room itself, which is filled with the luminescent glow that I was drawn to originally.
A set of double doors is closed, but beside them is a list of names.
I squint, fighting against the glow that contends with the shadows.
The list of names is more like groupings: REAPERS - 3, HEATHENS - 3, PHANTOMS - 4, SERPENTS - 3, BASTARDS - 3, WOLVES - 4.
My gaze focuses on each group of men. I take note of the various tattoos that adorn their skin. Apart from one group of men who are in full tactical gear, the rest are inked up as if they belong to a tribe.
In a way, they all do.
As I survey the details of each group, I try to work out who they are from the board.
Obviously, the four men with ghost masks are the Phantoms. That one is easy.
Judging from the masks with fangs and covered in scales, I’d peg them as the Serpents. But then the puzzle gets harder.
The three men in tactical gear don’t seem to care about watching us; they’re more interested in who the others are looking at, probably working out their own game plan.
They’re wearing full black outfits, thick vests covering their chests like they’re about to go to war, and black ski masks with a skull painted onto them.
I notice the Scythe badge on one of the men’s shoulders, and figure they must be the Reapers.
Four men I first noticed earlier in the far corner aren't wearing masks, but they're all wearing the same necklace: a length of worn rope threaded through a single large fang. I’m betting they're the Wolves.
That leaves the men in the cracked devil masks to be either the Bastards or the Heathens. The broken crowns inked across their rippling muscular backs answer that question soon enough. Bastards.
Which means the men in the matte black masks, luminous crosses glowing over their eyes in different colors, and leather kuttes have to be the Heathens.
Unlike the others, they all bear the same tattoo somewhere on their body—across a chest, wrapped around a bicep, and what I can just make out across the back, poking out from behind a kutte.
Invictus Maneo.
I don't know much Latin beyond the obvious veni, vidi, vici, but even I recognize invictus. Unconquered. Undefeated. Maybe that's what it means: the unconquered men of Deadwood Hollow.
As though they can feel my stare, every one of them turns to look at me.
My pulse stutters. Heat blooms beneath my skin as the weight of their attention settles over me. It doesn't feel hostile. If anything, it feels... curious. Calculating. Like they're trying to decide what to make of me.
Even so, their presence creates a void in the room, swallowing the noise around them until everyone else fades into the background.
They’re dangerously beautiful—well, their bodies are.
Wearing nothing but low-slung jeans and heavy boots, a piece of rope tucked into one of their pockets.
One man has longish hair, though it’s tied up in a knot at the back of his head.
He’s the tallest, a six-foot-something wall of muscle, covered in tattoos and dirt.
His biceps are monstrous, thick cords of muscle moving when he tucks something into his back pocket.
The man to his right has black hair, shorter, stray strands still touching his ears.
I note a piercing in his left ear, a long bar that threads from one corner to the other like scaffolding and glistens against the green light.
He’s just as big as the first man, only his physique is more athletic, defined abs—I count eight—leading into a slender V-line that dips low into the waistband of his jeans.
I try not to drool at that, because now is not the time to listen to the desire coursing through my body.
Opposite him, a man with shaved hair talks animatedly. He’s covered more in dirt than tattoos, but that doesn’t detract from the wide-set shoulders and defined waist.
He’s the one who glances at me again, and I swear he winks at me through the dark hollows of his mask. It shouldn’t affect me the way it does, but I can’t escape the heat that crawls up my spine, or the wetness pooling in my panties when his bicep flexes as he adjusts his mask.
Fuck.
I clear my throat, and I try to distract myself from my evident insanity, focusing on the rest of the room. On anything but them.
In the other corner of the room, a desk sits empty with only a chair behind it. I notice the trays of medical supplies that line a shelf on the wall. Gauze and tape, icepacks, and sterilized water pods all sit in designated compartments.
The realization of what I’m about to do wages war with my determination. Am I going to get hurt? I thought weapons weren’t allowed?
I swallow back the fear crawling up my throat, because I can’t start questioning whether I can do this. Once I set my mind on something, I’m determined to see it through. Even if I have to resign to fear to get me through tonight.
It’s only six hours. Six hours to run, find a flag, and wait it out until morning.
Easy enough.
The truth is, I’d do anything for my brother. If I get hurt in the process, it’ll be worth it to win. Then I’ll be owed a favor by one of these groups of men.
I know it’s delusional to believe that any of these men can help me. But I’ve run out of resources, reached every possible dead end. I’ve stared at so many screens, reports, and newspaper clippings that I’m going insane.
But I need to find out who murdered my brother. Why they thought they could take his life, cover it up, and live their own as if nothing happened? Because I know that’s what happened.
Beckett’s death was no simple one. Even though the police closed the case straight away, deeming it a suicide by drug overdose, I know it wasn’t.
I knew my twin better than anybody else.
Beckett was a good guy, a happy guy. He never even touched a cigarette, let alone the hard stuff.
But the newspapers got hold of his story, told it their way, and sullied the Clements’ name all for the sake of a headline.
I tried to trace his steps, figure out who he spoke to, and who he hung around with.
We were always close, but there were things I noticed he kept from me.
He would act sheepish if I asked about work, about the job he was doing.
We’d never kept secrets from one another, which is why his death became a mystery for me to uncover.
Someone came after him—for reasons unknown—and I won’t stop until I get the answers he and I both deserve.
“Are you in?”
I turn to the voice coming from the group of girls behind me. A girl with white-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail stares at me with wide blue eyes.
“Umm… sorry?”
“We’re talking tactics here, are you in?”
I glance from her to the rest of the group, noting the ridiculousness of tonight.
One girl, a redhead, is in sports gear—smart.
But the others are all dressed in miniskirts and tube tops, crop tops, and cut-off shorts that will do nothing to ward off the chilly night air.
Unless they know something I don’t, I doubt we’re going to be warm, especially if we need to see out the night.
“Go over the plan again,” a brunette in a miniskirt and strappy top asks. She’s wearing pumps, which are probably the only sensible piece of clothing she’s got.
I roll my eyes and cross my arms. It’d be idiotic to think that any game plan we come up with will work against the men in front of us. This is their game after all.
Before the blonde can repeat herself, the large man in the glowing mask turns to face us all.
“Listen up!”