Page 6 of Theirs to Hunt

“Did you say stalkers? Plural? Seriously, how? You were gone for four hours.”

“I know! Crazy, right? But I did. Two of them. About as easily as I think I may have caught some poison ivy, based on the look of my left leg,” I whined.

The knock on the door came fast, less than ten minutes later, and I did the smart thing: peeked through the peephole, taser still in hand. I was doing a bad rejected Charlie’s Angel impersonation.

“Open up, crazy,” Bobbie said, loud enough for the whole floor to hear.

I cracked the door. “Say something only Bobbie would say.”

She rolled her eyes and answered immediately. “You once got out of a date with a total skeez by saying you had a colostomy bag.”

Satisfied, I yanked it open and practically collapsed into her arms.

She hugged me tight, then leaned back to look me over. “Okay. You’re not bleeding, which is my usual baseline for drama. But you are flushed, tipsy, and vibrating with chaotic energy, so… talk.”

I motioned her inside. “I premixed the drinks on the counter. Sazerac, heavy on regret.”

She grabbed it and followed me into the living room, dropping onto the couch like she owned it, because she basically did.

I flopped beside her, dramatically kicking one ostrich-printed thigh into the air.

“So,” she said, sipping. “Stalkers. Poison ivy. Masked men. Start explaining.”

I groaned and threw my head back.

“It was supposed to be a mingle party. Genevieve from HR, you know, the one who puts inspirational quotes in her email signature, invited me. Said it was exclusive. Classy. Said the men were mature.”

Bobbie squinted. “Is that code for creepy old rich guys?”

“Some definitely fit the category, but also… sexy rich guys. One looked straight out of my favorite NSFW book. Dark hair, hint of silver, tailored suit. Voice? Mmm. Resonant, crisp, authoritative. The kind that makes you want tocall him Sir and see how far you can push before he puts you over his knee.”

“And his son? Dead ringer for the cover model ofPrimal Heat: Book Four.A little shorter, still at least a foot taller than me, and swole. His buttons deserved hazard pay for holding his shirt together. And don’t even get me started on the quads and bubble butt.”

Bobbie stared at me. “I’m sorry. Are you describing a horror story or a fantasy?”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know. They gave us masks and numbers, and then I heard Genevieve in the bathroom saying she got a five-thousand-dollar bonus for bringing me. Five grand. Like I was a luxury handbag or something.”

Bobbie sat up straighter. “Wait. They sold you? Actually sold? Auction block or discreet bidder numbers?”

I nodded, wide-eyed. “But with cocktails and a string quartet playingWicked Gamein the background.”

Chewing my bottom lip, I thought it through. “I never witnessed active bidding. They brought girls in one by one into a room. A few were escorted out to a car after. Others came back looking overjoyed. Practically waving golden ticket energy. I dipped before they brought me in.”

She rubbed her temples. “Oh my God. And you stayed?”

Throwing my hands up, I yelped, “Hindsight, hello! It didn’t seem sketchy until I was sipping champagne and complimenting the detailing on a woman’s wolf mask. She smiled and said, ‘The better to hunt you with, darling.’”

Every nature show I ever watched kicked in on loop. David Attenborough narration in my head. You don’t run from predators.

So, there I was, trying to look casual, scanning for exits, hummingDon’t Be Suspicious.

She blinked at me for a second, then muttered, “I’m going to need to see your leg.”

“Poison ivy, or my body rejectingbad decisions?”

Bobbie sighed. “Okay.” Examining the thigh I shoved onto her lap, she determined, “Bark burn, babe, from climbing trees in a dress. Now you’re walking me through every single second again. And then we’re filing something. A complaint. A resignation. A restraining order. A plot twist.”

“Honestly?” I murmured. “It was kind of hot.”