Page 1 of Theirs to Hunt
Chapter one
Reagan, Friday 09:30 p.m.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” I muttered as I scrambled up the limbs of the huge live oak.
Bark tore at the soles of my feet, already raw from gravel and debris. Every step stung with regret. Every scrape reminded me I shouldn’t be here.
“How do I get myself into this crap?” I hissed under my breath. Let’s go to a party, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Clearly, the bitch lied.
I climbed as high as I dared, dress snagging on bark, heels long gone. Spanish moss brushed my bare shoulders like spider webs. A full-body shiver ripped through me as I swiped at my skin, praying spiders weren’t part of this nightmare.
I pressed against the thick trunk, grateful for the massive limb sweeping down above me, its dark foliage offering cover from the man stalking below.
Small mercies: at least I’d chosen the forest green sheath dress instead of the white one. A beacon I didn’t need.
The moment I steadied my breathing, voices drifted up through the branches.
“Did you see the new girl?” one woman asked, syrupy and amused. “In the green dress?”
“Number seventeen?” the other replied, voice dry and biting. “Yeah. She looked clueless. Like she had no idea what this party actually was.”
A low, condescending laugh followed. “Genevieve’s always pulling this. She tells them it’s a singles mixer for established gentlemen. Doesn’t mention the rules until they’re already on site and tagged.”
“It’s not our fault if they don’t read the fine print,” the first woman said. “Besides, Emerson handles the contracts. Ironclad.”
Tagged?
My stomach dropped.
“Still,” the second murmured, “it’s risky. She better hope this one doesn’t bolt. Some men were really looking forward to fresh prey tonight.”
My breath hitched as the women drifted away.
Next, a tall man in a tiger half mask and custom tuxedo stepped into the same spot, phone glowing in his hand. He paused, tapped the screen, and thankfully hit speaker.
“Brooks, have you seen her?” he barked, voice deep and sharp.
A pause, then another voice, lower and rougher. “No. Our little fawn must’ve had a heads-up. I’m not finding her either.”
I froze. His tone carried that dangerous edge I’d heard in men who didn’t take no well. Controlled. Coiled.
I shifted slightly, bark digging into the back of my thigh, and prayed nothing cracked. One wrong move and I’d be the idiot up a tree playing hide-and-seek with a psychopath in a mask.
He turned slowly beneath me, scanning the woods. He could smell fear. For allI knew, he could.
The phone lit again, casting a glow over his jawline, mask shadows hiding more than a full lower lip.
This was a man used to control. Of everything.
I clenched my teeth, forcing stillness while my heart tried to pound its way out of my chest. I’d made it this far. Stay quiet. Stay hidden.
I tipped my head back against the bark, silently cursing myself for trusting Genevieve, the new girl from HR with donuts and fake friendship, to set me up on this mingle date.
She’d promised an exclusive event at a plantation, mature men looking for serious relationships. Silver fox territory. Tempting.
But masks? Numbers? Then the frantic bathroom Google search: Spring Primal Fête. Cute branding. Horrifying subtext.
Yeah. Fête my ass.
