Page 15 of Kortlek

More than that — I want to show him that I’m a part of the De Santis family as much as he is. Just because he’s older doesn’t give him any right to constantly monitor me, dictate my life decisions, and treat me like a child. I love Arlo more than I love myself, but there are some things I’m no longer allowing him to do.

I take a deep breath, my hands clawing the dirt and grass below. The excitement doesn’t stop; if anything, it’s getting to the point of boiling over. The longer I wait for the game to start, the more I’m excited. Like a child on a sugar rush. Shivers and chills run down my spine, and all I can do is feel an overwhelming sense of frenzy, slowly rushing through my bloodstream.

Carefully, I lift my head upward and glance at the prey that are all on their knees, their weapons clutched in their hands. They’re silent. No one is daring to utter a single word, and they’re being awfully docile. Not that I dislike it, though I’m hoping they turn out to be an actual challenge, rather than just something I’ll get over with.

There are more men than women. Blair is always the one dealing with women, and I’ve seen it on cameras firsthand how she does it. Blair Hawke is one of the kindest, nicest souls I’ve ever met. From day one, when Arlo brought her home, I loved her. She’s exactly what Arlo needs, and Arlo is exactly what Blair’s been yearning for her whole life.

But when it comes to Kortlek, I don’t recognize her. It’s like all the rage that she’s been holding below surfaces, and it’s impossible to stop her until she’s dealt with all the women here. Her methods are sloppy, but she gets the job done and the message across. The fury is always left behind on the corpses. She’s not killing — she’s overkilling, and she’s enjoying it.

It’s the only time she allows the darkness to take control, and she lets go of all restraint. It’s the only time I can see her in her unapologetic, true form. She’s free, with no bounds grounding her. Her mind is one hell of a place, and I never wish to enter it or see what’s going on in there.

I wouldn’t be able to handle it.

On the other hand, Cove and Arlo deal with the men. There are thirty-two men; hence, Blair has six women to play with. The number is just right for her to have the time of her life. Which means I’ll take on a couple of men.

I’m not as arrogant as to believe I’d be able to take out thirty-two men on my own in a dark forest with no one to back me up. I’m well aware of my strengths and weaknesses, and killing all of them is impossible. But a couple of those bastards are mine. All I’m hoping is they put up a fight; otherwise it will be too plain, boring, and unworthy of my time.

And the inevitable punishment once I’m discovered.

My eyes flicker upward, and a slow, lazy smile forms on my face. The massive digital clock strikes zero, and it goes off. The prey all glance up, waiting for the inevitable to happen. Their anxiety reeks, and it only fuels my excitement.

Damn, I could get off on this.

My head goes back down again, careful not to be caught by the cameras. Perchance I am caught by Arlo; he won’t say it right now. He’d risk other prey coming straight at me, and no matter how pissed, he definitely doesn’t want me dead, so he’ll turn a blind eye momentarily until he can come, grab me, and tie me to a chair.

“Welcome, our dear prey,’’ a loud voice echoes in the otherwise silent clearing. There are many speakers all around, and it’s to ensure everyone can hear it. The voice itself is robotic, coming from a voice changer. Honestly, it’s creepy.

“You’re already familiar with the Kortlek game. You know exactly why you’re here, and you also know that unless you try your best, you’re not leaving this place alive,’’ the voice chuckles. It’s definitely Arlo — I know it by the way he’s speaking. His words hold hostility, venom, and pure rage, masked behind his deep chuckle.

“The rules are simple. You’re allowed to do whatever you wish with the weapons provided. Your goal is to kill the hunters. Kill them, and you’re free. Kill them or be killed. You are not allowed to kill other prey, and if you do, you’re disqualified,’’ he pauses momentarily. “That just means I’ll kill you myself.’’

There’s a slight pause for dramatic effect. I don’t have to look to feel their dread, their fears, and their anxiety. I bite my lip to prevent a moan of excitement from slipping. The metallic flavor fills my mouth, my tongue coated with blood. It tastes like the sweetest candy, and I’m slowly getting on that sugar rush.

I can hear someone crying, and it only makes me close my eyes. The overwhelming fury fills my body, and I can feel my hands trembling in anticipation. I squeeze them more, my hands digging into the wet ground under the grass. My body trembles, and I’m prepared to start running as soon as we’re allowed to.

“Without any further ado,’’ Arlo laughs menacingly, and I grin in return, “Kortlek can commence!”

A loud, chilling sound of sirens blasts around us, and as I lift my head up, I see that every prey is scrambling to their feet. Their weapons are in their hands, gripped tightly as if their lives depend on it — because they do.

They scurry every which way, some of them forming small trios or groups, going together into the forest. Neither one seems to be coming my way, though, and I can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment bloom in my chest.

Oh, well.

I rise to my feet, immediately finding one of the cameras that is set up on the reflector, high up. I remove the black mask off my mouth, pulling it down to my chin. I give the camera a gloved thumbs up, grinning widely before putting the mask back on. Mom and Dad are definitely watching, and if my predicament is right, Dad is currently fuming and Mom is acting innocent.

With that, I duck into the forest.

Let the Kortlek begin.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It’s eerily silent. Nothing but my footsteps on the branches creaking. My boots are heavy on my feet, but they can give one hell of a bruise if used correctly. Hence, I’m choosing to ignore the dull ache in my feet, continuing to move forward.

A dagger is firmly between my fingers as I spin it, fiddle with it, and continue to seek out the prey. I’ve brought a gun, too, with two extra clips just in case. Though, I’m not using it unless it’s absolutely necessary. I take after Mom in that regard — I prefer knives and daggers. They leave a prettier mark.

It’s ironic for a sniper to prefer anything but a gun, yet here I am. I’m a walking contradiction, anyway, so it doesn’t really bother me that I can’t seem to make up my mind which weapon will be my choice. I can’t stick to a single one. Why would I? Too many options, too many great ways to kill with different weapons for me to pick and stick to just one.

The wind blows in my hair, my hood falling back. My hair is braided into two Dutch braids, enough to keep it out of my face for the time I’m here. The white strands mix with the black ones, and it’s a rather pretty sight. I should wear my hair like this more often.

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