Page 19 of Thrill of the Hunt

My watch is counting down, showing 3:32 on the purple screen.

Think, think, think.

Fucking THINK, Isabelle,I scream at myself internally.

Running my fingers through my hair, I look around. I immediately pulled Mason away from everyone else after the announcer came in, and we’re back at the table. He was momentarily stunned by the explosions, but he’s clearly more drugged up than I am. Or he’s just that ignorant.

Mason stands at my side, leaning his body against mine for support. He’s running his hands along my back, casually dipping them lower and lower until he reaches my ass.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t think straight.

Greyson is on the edge of his seat along with everyone else on the balcony. They’re locked in on what has quickly become a real life erotic horror movie.

Glancing down again, I read the watch.

3:15.

I don’t understand the point of a countdown if they’re blowing people’s heads off before time runs out. Forcing my vision to straighten out, I scan the room, searching for each initiate’s watch. They’re all too far away to read, but I quickly realize they’re all flashing different colors.

Purple, like mine.Orange.Pink.

My mind begins shuffling the color combinations, and suddenly it dawns on me. None of us can even make these colors because there’s no one in the room painted in the one color we all need to match our watches. Is their plan to create mass chaos, then kill us all anyway? Two at a time, building anticipation as we wait to die.

Another explosion rocks the room, prompting me to use Mason’s body as a shield against the body parts barreling through the air. They’re sloppy and wet as they coat his back, and I watch the fresh blood mix with his blue paint.

From the corner of my eye I can see Greyson stand, positioning himself so he’s leaning over the balcony. I can’t tell if he’s excited I’m about to die or if he’s anxious, unsure I’m going to figure out whatever the fuck this is.

I turn back to Mason.

He’s already smiling down at me, slurring his words as he says, “Let me fuck your rich girl cunt.”

I inhale, caught off guard. “My what?”

“Come on,” he laughs, low and slow. “That’s what we’re all here for, isn’t it? To fuck the richest pussies in town?”

Disgust rolls through my stomach as I listen to him. That’s all I am to him. The drugs gave us both the confidence to not give a fuck and be straight forward, but I just thought he was horny. It hadn’t yet crossed my mind that he was only interested because he saw my mask and immediately assumed I was wealthy.

He’s not wrong, but fuck, why does it have to hurt so bad?

The thought triggers me. This is howeveryoneused to treat me prior to removing myself from the friend group I once had. All they ever saw were dollar signs. Daddy’s dirty money.

I’m staring at him but not looking at his face, watching drops of blood mix with his blue paint. The thick, shiny crimson creates the most beautiful shade of purple when combined with our fluorescent blue paint.

Mason pushes his body into me, and I raise my hands, forcing some of his weight off of me. He’s so fucking heavy, and the drugs are making him act like dead weight.

Pulling my hands off of him, I feel chunks of human flesh stuck to the palm of my hand. Turning it over, I pick it off, then flick a piece to the floor. I begin picking at another piece, but it’s stuck in the paint, swirling around my skin and creating a purple and blue marbled look.

My stomach sinks and my heart stops as the realization hits me.

We all need red to create our colors. Greyson told me none of the unsuspecting party guests would survive tonightminutesbefore bringing me here. It was a hint.

A fucking hint.

It all makes sense.

The knives, the inevitable death of the unsuspecting guests, the blood champagne flutes.

I have to kill Mason.

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