Page 81 of Theirs to Hunt

Confirmed. I read the report with my own two eyes. Cauterized stump and everything.

The chart says "unidentified trauma" but that was surgical, girl.

I don't know whether to laugh, gag, or frame this text. Are you okay?

Better now. Karma's real and apparently has a scalpel. I'll call later if I survive the shift.

Is it wrong that I'm now humming Shaggy's It Wasn't Me?

Play this in his room, please. Song: I Lost My Dick by Flavored Cardboard

Dead

Chapter sixty-eight

Reagan, Monday, 11:20 a.m.

My new keycard works on the executive elevator.

That alone should tell me how deep I've been pulled into this world.

No more badge-scans and "please hold." Just a smooth ride up and a direct text from Grayson:

Come to my office.

Close the door behind you.

I should be nervous.

I’m not.

I’m buzzing.

Half from power, half from wondering how he’s going to ruin me in that stupid perfect chair of his.

The hallway outside his office is quiet, sterile, polished. The kind of quiet that hums with money and threat.

I bypass a bitchy-looking icy blonde who jabs the button to announce me when I don’t stop. She clearly isn’t used to anyone barging in on Grayson. Fool’s errand.

I tap twice and step inside without waiting.

He’s behind the desk, sleeves rolled, dark vest over a crisp white shirt. No tie. Collar open just enough to erase every intelligent thought I walked in with.

“You called?” I close the door.

His eyes drag from my heels to my mouth. He’s deciding what order to take me in.

“I wanted to congratulate you,” he says smoothly. “HR wasn’t even surprised when I promoted you. They already knew you wouldn’t stay at manager level.”

“I’ll take that as a win.” I step closer, fold my arms.

He gestures to the chair across from him. I ignore it and rest a hip against his desk, close enough he can feel the choice.

“I have your new assignments. People. Departments. Patterns. You’ll report directly to me. No one else needs to know how deep this goes.”

I nod, but my brain’s already slipping sideways. If I inch my skirt up, he’ll see the garters. I wore them for this.

Because Grayson Calhoun looks like sex and strategy wrapped in a man I should fear more than I do. And maybe it’s the leftover hum of orgasms in my system. Maybe it’s the power trip of a black keycard and a title that doesn’t exist.