Page 8 of His Cruel Exception
Vincent doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll get it started in another half hour,”
He walks away to make the arrangements, and the mood around the table changes immediately. Enzo is already grinning, Carmine sits forward with renewed interest, and Raffaele reaches for his drink as though the night has finally become worth his time.
Marco, who is the oldest of us, is watching me. “You’re doing all this to get the stripper’s attention,” he says. “I’ve never seen you this interested in anyone.”
He’s right.
No one has ever held my attention the way that man did.
And now that he has, he needs to understand what getting on my radar entails.
True to his words, Vincent has the club locked down within half an hour, and people are already being ushered outside toward the grounds where the hunt will begin.
I turn to Davide before we leave. “Don’t let anyone touch him.”
We adjust our masks and leave the club, stepping into the cold night before separating to find our prey.
It takes me only a few seconds to find mine.
The stripper is standing near the edge of the crowd with his hand in another man's. My attention drops immediately to where their fingers are joined, and the urge to sever the other man's hand rises through me so hard that I have to flex my own fingers at my side.
I don't move toward them.
Not yet.
Instead, I remain several yards behind and watch, making sure the stripper has enough of a head start to believe there is a chance he might actually get away from me tonight.
The starting shot tears through the night with enough force to send birds scattering from the branches overhead, and almost immediately the man beside the striper releases his hand and runs, disappearing between the trees. He’s clearly played this game before, but the stripper hasn’t.
For several precious seconds, he simply stands beneath the pale wash of moonlight, staring after the man who abandoned him as bodies rush past on either side.
He looks completely lost.
By the time his body seems to catch up with what is happening, a middle-aged man has already broken from the group and started toward him. Davide steps into the man’s path before he gets close.
The stranger is forced to veer aside, throwing Davide an annoyed look before continuing into the woods in search of an easier prey.
I follow the stripper with no urgency in my steps.
His clumsy footfalls betray his position, carrying clearly through the trees as he crashes deeper into the forest. Branches snap beneath his shoes, damp leaves scatter across the ground behind him.
It’s very obvious he has not done this before.
Someone familiar with being hunted would know better than to keep running in a straight line, and be aware that a forest this dense offers a thousand places to disappear if you are clever enough to use them. Instead, he keeps pushing deeper, probably driven by the conviction that farther must mean safer. He glances over his shoulders every few seconds and his eyes go wide whenever he sees me behind him.
He then charges abruptly, and I lose sight of him completely.
But I can still hear him.
The air stings the back of my neck as I move between the trees, listening past the whisper of leaves overhead and the distant sounds of the hunt carrying through the forest. Somewhere to my right, I hear the smallest hitch of breath, hastily smothered and then followed a second later by another.
I turn my head toward the sound, but there’s nothing there. I continue walking, pretending I’ve heard nothing. I pass the place where I know he’s hiding without slowing, and behind me there is a faint rustle before he bolts.
My mouth spread into a wide smile as I turn after him. He doesn’t make it far this time. Exhaustion has already started dragging at his body, making his movements uneven, his shoulders rising with every breath while his pace deteriorates from a sprint into something graceless as he forces himself forward on legs that are clearly starting to fail him.
Whatever patience I possessed for watching him struggle finally begins to fray.
I want my hands on him.
