Page 52

T he rhythmic thrum of crickets and birds bedding down for the evening fades to a dull pulse in my ears as I brace trembling palms against the rough bark of an ancient oak. Each ragged inhalation sets my chest heaving, sweat trickling down the taut cords of my neck. Groaning softly, I lean forward and gently tap my forehead against the tree’s gnarled trunk, allowing the bite of bark to dig into my clammy skin.

Fucking hell, this is torture on an almost biblical scale.

Briar has proven maddeningly elusive thus far, evading me at almost every turn across the sprawling grounds. A small part of me is relieved at her deftness, recoiling from the mere notion of capturing this feisty vixen. But the Order demands certain sadistic pretences be upheld, archaic traditions meant to test a recruit’s obedience and fortitude. Stomach roiling, I swallow back a surge of nausea picturing the grotesque rituals in store should we succeed.

How can I bear witness—much less actively participate—in doling out the sordid depravities that await? The very thought of using Briar as some mindless cock-sleeve, violating her in the most invasive of ways to establish sick notions of dominance, makes me want to retch.

A shuddering exhale escapes as my palm flattens against the coarse bark, relishing its steadying solidity. Running myself into the bloody ground is a far more palatable agony than facing what looms at journey’s end should I prove successful in this demented Hunt. Saliva floods my mouth when visions of Briar’s lithe form stripped bare, trembling and defiant before me flicker unbidden through my mind’s eye. Those tempestuous azure depths gazing up at me with a swirling maelstrom of trepidation and bravado as I—

“Bloody fucking Christ.” The curse bursts free in a gravelly rasp, my fingers curling into the bark hard enough to dig my nails in. I strain against warring impulses to flee this sordid shiteshow or forge ahead, fulfilling duties expected of me no matter how soul-scourging they prove.

Either way, something inside me fractures a little more with each passing moment. Some vestige of my former self withers, whittled down until nothing remains but the essence of a monster bred for domination and debasement through the Order’s calculated conditioning.

It’s a legacy I’ve inherited since birth, a malignant cancer eating away at any lingering potential for light or decency within me. And yet, part of me rages against the dying of that spark, unwilling to be the next depraved link perpetuating this archaic chain of horrors under banners of “tradition” or “honour”.

The distant crunching of leaves and twigs alerts me someone’s encroaching on my momentary solitude. I straighten just as Hayes emerges from the shadowed treeline, dark eyes narrowed and lips pressed flat in a grim line. Like every other twisted fuck born to this life, he shows neither hesitation nor a flicker of conscience over the night’s ritualistic savagery lying in wait.

“Pulled yourself together yet?” he grunts, brows furrowing as analytical eyes track across my dishevelled form. A single fingertip scratches carelessly at the day’s worth of stubble shadowing his jawline. “Jace has a solid lead on her position two klicks east, but we need to move before she slips the net again.”

My gut clenches instinctively, even as I paste on a mask of feigned indifference and nod once in terse acknowledgement. The slick words spill forth with well-practised ease despite their bitter aftertaste. “We still have time, let’s keep it to preliminary testing for now. Work our way up the list.”

Whether Briar realises it yet or not, her defiant spirit is receiving its first breaking tonight. And some festering part of me fears it’s not just her essence set to shatter irrevocably beneath the Order’s perverse machinations, but whatever tattered remnants still cling to my own withering humanity.