I can’t help but watch her as she hums, takes a shirt off the rack, and observes
it as if she’s a regular girl shopping in a fancy boutique. Entirely unbothered by
the eyes burning into her exposed skin.
Forcing my attention away, I glance at Jillian. She’s now staring hard at herself, most likely trying to avoid Sydney’s naked form reflected in the mirror.
“You have any advice?” I ask, my voice weak and hoarse from all the
screaming.
I watch her freeze from the corner of my eye. She collects herself and then resumes blending her concealer, clearing her throat.
“Cover your tracks,” she says quietly, her Russian accent prominent. She has a beautiful voice, and Rocco's friends thinks so, too. “And run only when necessary. It isn’t about how far you can get; it’s about making sure they never find you. You can run for hours, and you’ll always lead them right to you.”
“They can’t get you if they don’t know where you are,” I mutter aloud. The
words come out raspy and broken, but I don’t bother trying to repeat myself.
“What about the traps?”
“I counted the distance between them the best I could. They’re about thirty feet apart, roughly. They’re uniform, so the hunters know how to avoid them.”
I roll my lip between my teeth. “Thank you for helping me.”
She glances at me. “Don’t mention it.”
Literally, or we’ll both be in trouble.
We descend into silence after that. She doesn’t offer any consolation, but it’s
not something I would ever want from her. From anyone.
Twenty-five minutes later, we’re all dressed in jeans and long-sleeved shirts.
They’ll do virtually nothing to protect us from the elements, and certainly not any metal arrowheads plunging into our bodies at a breakneck speed. But considering we’ll be running on adrenaline, it’s enough to keep our bodies warm.
Francesca’s heels resonate as she climbs the steps, and my system floods with
panic, whatever control I was grasping onto slipping. So easily, like my fingers
are covered in grease.
“You girls ready?” Her voice is like a punch to the kidneys. I glance at her through the mirror, her eyes perusing each of us, clicking her tongue when she must deem us presentable enough.
“Let’s go. Time to eat, and then we will go over lessons on how to act properly tonight. When night falls, the Culling will begin, and if you pass, you will be required to mingle with our guests afterward.”
Panicked glances are exchanged. Even surprise flashes across Sydney’s gaze.
Bethany raises a trembling hand, requesting permission to speak.
“Are you saying that we have to do the Culling… in the dark?” she asks hesitantly.
Francesca raises an eyebrow. “That’s what I said.”
Then, she turns and walks out, the expectation to follow clear. Slowly, we trail after her, but not before we look at each other with the same panicked expression.
We’re fucked. We’re all fucked.
Single file, ladies. We must be in a uniform line to greet your potential rapists.
Make a good impression, and they may be nice when they rape you.
Bursts of loud laughter and deep voices tighten my throat. It feels as if my heart is making an escape attempt, breaking through its gilded cage and clawing its way out of captivity.
Jesus, I think I’m going to pass out.
My legs wobble and my hand catches the railing, clutching it so tightly, my
knuckles are bleached white. It’s the only thing keeping me from pitching forward.
“Get it together,” Jillian whispers harshly from behind me.
“Says the girl who wasn’t punished for this three days ago,” I snap back.
She quietens. That was rude of me. But fuck, there’s not a manual on how to
rewire my brain to be unafraid and calm. I’m nearly hyperventilating by the time
we reach the landing and make our way into the living room where the hunters
await.
These men don’t belong here.
This house is rundown, and it doesn’t matter how clean or tidy it is, it still looks like trash. And there are five men standing in the middle of it, wearing Armani suits, diamond-encrusted Rolex watches, and submerged in a shroud of expensive cologne that costs more than my car note.
Their conversation dies as they turn to us, and I realize the different colors in
their eyes look the same when they’re all lifeless.
“Francesca,” one calls, drawing out her name with affection. “You’ve got
yourself a beautiful lot here.”
The man has short, dirty blond hair, blue eyes, and a deep tan to complement
his toned body. He looks like he spends his days lounging on his yacht, most likely shacked up with a supermodel in a skimpy red bikini, who’s blissfully unaware of her sugar daddy’s taste for hunting innocent women for sport.
Lucky her.
His eyes slide to mine and lock, his grin growing as the other three men grunt
their agreement. I’m supposed to appear meek and submissive, but it takes me too many seconds to drop my stare to the glossy wooden floor. Courtesy of yours truly. We had to make this place look presentable, and adding a coat of oil
apparently accomplishes that feat.
Feeling the burn of his stare caressing my tender skin, I’m now confident that
I was too slow. A spark of adrenaline ignites in my blood, worsening my nausea.
Without a shadow of a doubt, I know he’s going to be the one hunting me today.
“The one with the orange hair, does her pussy match, or did she ruin it by dyeing it that color?” another asks, and I have to clench my teeth and bite back a response. Phoebe trembles beside me as Francesca affirms something incredibly
personal, her voice even and pleasant.
Nasty bitch.
“I like that one,” he states. My gaze flickers to him, noting his bushy black brows, tiny eyes, and potbelly. “Her hair will look beautiful wrapped around my fist when she’s sucking my cock.”
A knot forms in my throat, and I take a risk by hooking my pinky around hers
and squeezing briefly. We’re crowded into each other tightly enough that the quick action goes unnoticed.
“Of course, Ben,” Francesca responds pleasantly. The man, Ben, practically