Page 47 of Doomed
“I’ve been thinking,” Elliot continues, his eyes darting to the gallery entrance before returning to mine. “Perhaps we could help each other.”
“Help each other how?” My guard immediately rises.
He moves closer, voice barely above a whisper. “I could find you first. Capture you before Knox does.” His fingers brush against my arm, feather-light. “Save you from the degradation. From him.”
My skin prickles at his touch.
“Why would you do that?” I pull away slightly, studying his face. “Wouldn’t you want to... I mean, isn’t the whole point to capture a woman and...” The words stick in my throat.
“Enjoy myself?” Elliot finishes, a strange smile playing at his lips. “Perhaps I’d find more enjoyment in denying Knox his prize. He’s been insufferable since you appeared—talking about you constantly, showing up at my gallery unannounced.” His expression hardens. “Some of us are tired of the Blackwoods getting exactly what they want.”
I study Elliot’s face, not buying his explanation. “That doesn’t feel real, Elliot. You don’t strike me as the type who cares about how much power the Blackwoods have. You’ve been working with them for years.” I cross my arms. “What’s the real reason?”
Elliot runs a hand through his hair again, glancing toward the windows before letting out a long sigh.
“The odds are always bad. Normally, it’s fifteen men and five women. But even so, fifteen men and six women are not a lot better.” He lowers his voice. “And there’s someone who’s made it clear that if I don’t find and claim a woman this year, he’ll...” Elliot’s jaw tightens. “He’s threatened to turn me into prey instead of the hunter I have always been.”
My eyes widen.“What? How would that even work?”
“The rules are pretty... flexible.” His fingers fidget with his cufflinks. “Some of the hunters find it amusing to hunt one of their own occasionally.”
I watch his face carefully, noticing the subtle changes in his expression—the flicker of fear in his eyes.
“And is that what you want?” I ask quietly.
Elliot’s head snaps up, his face twisting with exaggerated disgust. “God, no! What kind of question is that?” He takes a step back, straightening his tie with jerky movements. “The suggestion is repulsive. I’m not—” He cuts himself off, color rising in his cheeks. “That’s not who I am.”
The vehemence of his denial speaks volumes. I see the conflict playing across his features, the practiced revulsion that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I need to claim someone,” he continues, voice steadier now. “Anyone. It doesn’t have to be you, but it has to be someone. I’m just saying I could protect you from Knox, and you could help me avoid...” He trails off.
I feel a twinge of sympathy for Elliot, trapped in his own private struggle.However, the truth settles in my chest like a stone. I’m not sure if I want to avoid Knox anymore. The thought of him hunting me down, of that inevitable moment of capture—it sends a thrill through me I can’t deny.
“I appreciate the offer, Elliot. I really do.” I pick up my paintbrush from the floor, turning it between my fingers. “But I don’t think I want to avoid Knox. Not anymore.”
Elliot’s expression falls, disappointment flickering across his features before he schools them back to neutrality. “Fair enough.” He shrugs. “I’d struggle to beat Knox at hunting you anyway, but it was an idea.”
Something about the way his shoulders slump, the slight relief beneath his disappointment, makes me look at him more closely. I remember the fear in his eyes when he mentioned becoming prey himself, and the vehemence of his denial that spoke more truth than his words.
“Elliot,” I say gently, “has it occurred to you that maybe being prey wouldn’t be the worst thing? That whoever’s threatening you might see something in you that you’re not ready to acknowledge?”
His head snaps up, eyes wide with surprise. The slightest whisper of relief softens his features, as if he’s accepted something about himself that he’s never allowed himself to admit.
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” he says stiffly, but a flush creeps up his neck.
“I think you do.” I hold his gaze. “Sometimes we hide parts of ourselves so deeply that we forget they’re there. As an artist, I see it all the time—what people try to conceal often reveals the most about them.”
Elliot looks away, swallowing hard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe not,” I concede. “But I think whoever catches you might be doing you a favor. Sometimes we need someone else to help us face what we’re afraid to see in ourselves.”
The tension between us feels too heavy, and suddenly I want to escape the confines of the gallery with its white walls and perfect lighting. I put my paintbrush down and wipe my hands with a rag.
“Let’s get out of here,” I suggest. “All this Hunt talk is making me anxious. Why don’t we grab a drink? It’s almost noon—that’s not too early for a cocktail, right?”
Elliot blinks, thrown by my sudden change in direction. The vulnerability I glimpsed moments ago disappears behind his polished facade. Still, now that I’ve seen it, he’ll never really be able to hide it from me again.
“A drink?” He checks his watch—a sleek, silver timepiece that probably costs more than three months' rent. “I suppose I could clear my schedule for an hour.”
