Page 12 of Beautiful Prey
She looks at me. “Sir, it’s never—”
“Turn that fucking thing off. It hurts my ears.”
She kills the alarm.
Reaching across the desk, I tap her screen and authorize the profile match under my seal.
Anne’s eyes catch the authorization before she goes back to typing. I must have lost my fucking mind to do it, but that doesn’t stop me. I fucking love this job.
His hand stays on the panel, the green light between his fingers, and he stares at it as if it might turn amber again.
The machine didn’t clear him. I did.
Leaning down, I drop the rasp until it’s meant only for him. “Carry your own pack tomorrow as well, Onyx Mercer.”
I watch him shiver as I straighten. “Thank you for your patience, Candidate.”
Turning away, I hear Anne resume her script behind me.
Welcome, Candidate Seven. The Hunt thanks you for your courage.
On the way to the stairs, I stop beside the blind candidate. Her folded white cane lies beside her knee. None of the Houses flagged her profile, and she won’t last long once those gates open.
I lift two fingers.
Two attendants cross the floor and take her gently beneath the arms. She stiffens when they touch her, but they’re already leading her toward the side door.
I keep walking. Too soon, they’ll put a ring on my finger and expect me to smile as they hand me over. So why can’t I have a little fun first?
Whatever that pretty little liar is hiding, he’s bringing it into my forest now.
Let’s see how long he can keep hiding it.
Taking the stairs with a pair of green eyes on my back, I keep my stride even where last night’s lesson complains beneath my ribs, then step back into line.
“What happened down there?” Ryven asks, irritation pulling at his mouth. “Light, I’ve never heard that alarm go off.”
“The scanner flagged.”
“On who?”
Seren tips his chin toward the crowd below. “The blond one.”
Ryven follows his line of sight, then grins. “Hmm, pretty.”
“He is,” Seren agrees.
I don’t answer, but I flex my gloved hand. Motherfuckers. Laugh while you can.
He’s mine first.
Dad has been standing at the railing with us the whole time. When the lights shift, he steps away from it and takes his place in front of the nine of us, silver hair neat, navy suit perfect.
“Welcome.” He swings one arm wide. “Welcome to the Hunt. You are the lucky few accepted this year. On behalf of the sponsoring Houses, we are grateful to each of you.”
Dad starts speaking, and I can mouth the words before he finishes the first paragraph. He wrote this speech before I was born. Every season, five hundred desperate people hear it as if it’s the first time.
I stop listening around the third sentence.
