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"You're not the only one who found what they wanted tonight." He taps his pocket where his own favor used to be—already handed off. "Graham too. Gave his out before the first hour was up."

I nod once, gaze scanning the ballroom one last time before stepping into the corridor.

They played the game, too.

They gave their tokens like good little monsters playing bythe rules, hands steady, faces composed, like the Hunt wasn't already bleeding through their masks. But I saw it—the flicker in their eyes when they found the ones they wanted. That shift. That sharp, possessive pull. Obsession settles fast in places like this. And me? I welcomed it.

Because in the end, it doesn't matter who made the first move. Only who makes the last.

And me? I didn't play. I didn't ask. I collared her in front of the entire room. I didn't just choose her. I took her.

And now every man here knows she's mine—and that I marked her outside the rules.

To them, that makes her fair game. To me, it makes her the only thing worth fighting for.

"You just put a target on her back," Sebastian says quietly, falling away as we reach the changing wing.

I glance over my shoulder, voice steady. "Let them try."

He grins. "See you in the woods."

Graham's already waiting ahead, hands in his pockets. He says nothing. Just gives a single nod before disappearing into the darkness of the dressing wing.

I follow.

My suit comes off piece by piece, each layer discarded like a skin I no longer need. The silk, the wool, the polish—it all falls away. What replaces it is simpler. Rougher. Built for speed, for violence, for clarity of purpose.

Black T-shirt. Dark jeans. Combat boots. The bare essentials.

And then—the final piece.

The skull mask waits for me at the end of the long mirror.

Ivory white. Hollow eyes. The mouth slightly parted in a painted sneer.

I slide it on without hesitation.

And in the mirror, the man disappears.

What's left is the truth.

Eight

LUNA

My pulse isa roar inside my head, drowning out everything else.

The world around me feels too quiet, too still. The women—the other Possessions—stand in their perfect lines, composed and unbothered, as if this is just another evening of champagne and silk and shadows. As if what's about to happen isn't going to change everything.

But I can't match their calm.

My chest is tight. My skin feels too hot. Sweat clings to the back of my neck, trapped beneath the collar I didn't ask for. My dress sticks to the curve of my spine. The heels dig into the balls of my feet. And no matter how hard I try to breathe, my lungs don't want to work the way they're supposed to.

The Hunt hasn't started yet.

But I'm already lightheaded.

Already fighting the rising pressure in my chest.