Page 52 of Stalked
I shrug. “I spent five years as a member of The Red Room in New York. This isn't my first experience with... intense sexual situations.”
The woman in yellow overhears and turns toward me. “The Red Room? I've heard stories about that place.”
“All true, probably,” I reply, noting how the others have fallen silent, listening. Their nervousness is palpable—electric currents of anxiety bouncing between them. I feel it too, but mine is different—a humming anticipation rather than dread.
A staff member appears at the doorway. “Ladies, it's time. The entrance to the maze will open in one minute. Remember the rules—you have half an hour head start before the hunters enter.”
The woman in blue stops pacing. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
“Why did I agree to this?” whispers the one in black, Cora, I think her name was, clutching her pendant.
I remain silent, focusing on my breathing and the familiar warmth that is building low in my belly.
The countdown begins.
“Thirty seconds.”
The six of us form a line before the massive wooden door. Nobody speaks now. I can hear each woman's breathing—some fast and shallow, others deliberately controlled.
“Ten seconds.”
I close my eyes briefly, centering myself. When I open them, I catch Mira staring at me.
“Aren't you scared?” She whispers.
Before I can answer, the mechanical sound of locks disengaging echoes through the chamber.
“The Hunt begins now,” announces the voice over the speaker. “Run.”
“Scared?” I laugh, tossing my hair back as the massive door creaks open. “Of course not. I can't wait to have fun.”
The other women look at me like I've grown a second head. I step forward confidently, my shoes clicking against the stone floor. The maze entrance looms before us—dark and promising.
“Ladies, our time is ticking,” I remind them, already moving forward. “Half an hour isn't much of a head start.”
Adrenaline courses through my veins as I enter the maze first, not waiting for the others. The air inside feels different—charged with possibility. Low lighting casts eerie shadows along the stone walls, and I can smell earth and something musky I can't quite place.
I've never felt more alive than in this moment. Back in New York, The Red Room offered structure and rules. This—this wild unknown—is something entirely different. My skin tingles with awareness, every nerve ending primed and ready.
I take the first right turn, then a left, mentally mapping the maze as I go. The dress allows me to move quickly, and I'm grateful I chose practical heels rather than the stilettos I'd initially considered. Somewhere behind me, I hear the frightened whispers of the other women as they scatter in different directions.
My heart pounds against my ribcage, but not from fear—from exhilaration. This is what I've been missing since moving back to Ravenwood.
As I navigate deeper into the maze, a small flutter of concern blooms in my chest. Not about being caught—but about Vane catching me. Fifteen years of distance, and yet he still looks at me like I'm already his. What will happen when there are no more walls between us, no more excuses?
I push the thought away and focus on the path ahead. The game has just begun, and I intend to make him work for his prize.
The maze is more elaborate than I expected. After several turns, I discover it's not just corridors but interconnected rooms with different themes. As I step through an archway, I find myself in a dimly lit chamber with padded benches positioned at different angles. Leather cuffs hang from strategically placed hooks, and an assortment of floggers, crops, and paddles decorates one wall.
“Well, this is promising,” I murmur, trailing my fingers along a Saint Andrew's cross in the corner. The leather is buttery soft, clearly high-quality. A flutter of anticipation moves through me.
I continue through another doorway, finding a room dedicated to fire play. Glass cabinets hold various implements—cupping sets, specially designed wands, and flame-resistant fabrics. The scent of massage oil with a hint of cinnamon lingers in the air. I pause by a table displaying different waxes, each labeled with its melting temperature.
“Someone's been thorough,” I whisper.
The Blackwoods spare no expense, clearly. In New York, The Red Room had specialized areas, but nothing this luxurious. I make mental notes of each room's location, thinking they might come in handy later.
The third room I discover makes me catch my breath. It's dedicated entirely to rope work. Intricate hemp and silk ropes in various colors are arranged by length and thickness. Suspension points hang from reinforced ceiling beams, and diagrams of knots and ties adorn the walls like works of art.
