Page 2

I should walk away. I don't need this ritual. I don't need theHunt. But I'm still here. Still drawn to the quiet power of tradition, still bound by the expectations carved into my name, still curious what the night might reveal when men shed their façades and women choose to run.

Hunt what runs. Keep what's caught. Control what's kept.

The words pulse in my blood like a second heartbeat as I slide the mask into place, and just like that, the man in the mirror disappears. What's left is colder, sharper, more distant. They'll see what they always see—an Owner above the fray.

They have no idea how tired I am of watching this charade.

With a final adjustment to my cuffs and a straightening of my spine, I walk into the night. The Hunt begins in an hour. The Owner's Club expects me to follow their rules—as I always have. But for the first time in years, I feel something stir beneath the surface.

Tonight feels different. And different, for men like me, is dangerous.

If I run tonight, it won't be away from the darkness. It'll be straight into it.

One

LUNA LAURENT

This isthe most brilliant mistake I've ever made... or the kind that gets me buried.

Possibly both.

But it's too late to care now. The mask is already strapped to my face, too tight along my jaw, too unfamiliar against my skin. My best friend Avery's hands move with that same reckless precision she uses for everything—fast, fearless, like if she hesitates even for a second, the whole thing will fall apart.

She's probably right.

"You sure about this?" Her voice isn't teasing anymore. It's soft, uneasy, like she already knows I'm going to say yes, and she's trying to forgive me ahead of time.

I don't answer right away. Instead, I stare at my reflection in the gold-rimmed mirror above her dresser, trying to recognize the girl looking back. The nude dress clings like smoke and sin, and the designer heels aren't my size. The silver mask draws attention to every lie etched into the lines of my body.

I look like a girl who wants to be chosen.

That isn't the truth. But it's what they're supposed to think.

"This is your last chance to walk away," Avery says behind me, quiet but sharp. "You can still back out. You don't have to do this. We can figure something else out."

Maybe I don't. But two hundred fifty thousand dollars buys a lot of freedom.

"I stole the invitation, Avery," my voice sounds steadier than I feel. "I'm already in."

And I'm not going back. Not to the manicured cage my parents try to lock me in. Not to the man with cold hands and a smile that promises to ruin me. Not to the life that is written in ink before I ever had a chance to hold the pen.

Not to Christopher. The thought of his name alone makes my skin crawl. My parents—wannabe New York high society—couldn't be more thrilled about the match. The Finches and the Laurents, two elite families finally united. What they don't see, or choose not to see, is how his fingers dig too hard into my arm when no one's watching. How his eyes follow me with a hunger that isn't love. How he's tried to put his hands on me more than once before we're even married.

My grandmother's words echo in my mind. "Men don't get better in marriage, Luna. They get worse." She was the only one who ever really saw me—not as an asset to be traded, but as a person with dreams. Before she passed, she'd sit with me for hours as I sketched, praising the landscapes and portraits that now hide under my bed. "This is your gift," she'd say. "Don't let them take it from you."

This is it. One night. One hunt. Make it through uncaught, collect the prize money, and disappear. My last desperate gambit.

"Do you even know what this is?" Avery asks, her voice dropping to a whisper as she adjusts the strap of my mask again. "The Hunt isn't just some rich-people costume party."

I nod. Of course I know. Everyone who runs in these circles has heard of The Hunt, the annual event thrown by the Owner's Club—that exclusive club of elite men selected for their wealth, power, and lineage. What most people don't know are the details, the hierarchy, the rules that turn women into prizes.

At the top of their food chain sit the Collectors, just three men who've been part of the Owner's Club longer than most members have been alive. Men who've claimed in so many Hunts that their collections are legendary. Beneath them are the Hunters, those who've earned the right to chase and claim. And at the bottom, the Patrons—men with money but no status yet, watching from the sidelines, waiting for their turn to join the game.

The women—specifically selected, carefully cataloged before the night begins—are known simply as Pieces. Until they're caught. Then they become Possessions. We all wear the same outfit, this damnable sheer dress that leaves nothing to the imagination and marks us as potential prizes.

The rules are simple enough. An Owner may claim as many Pieces as he wishes, but he must care for and provide for all of them. Some demand little of their Possessions, content with the thrill of ownership itself. Others demand... everything.

"You know you're allowed to say no if you're caught," Avery reminds me, her brow furrowed with worry. "You can refuse to live under his rules, whatever they are. Give up being a Possession and go back to your life."