Page 20 of Beautiful Prey

Caught, and he doesn’t yet know for what.

Neither do I. That’s the game.

I’ve already lost my fucking mind over this one. When Ryven messaged that the blond was fighting his way toward the checkpoint, I gave the order to make room for him before I’d even thought about what I was doing.

Close enough to smell him now, I inhale, greedy for it. Even through the visor’s filters, I get rain, pine smoke, and the scent of warm skin beneath wet cloth. My mouth waters.

His eyes flick down to my mouth, and I let my grin spread slowly, making sure he sees exactly what he’s done to me. “Inspection.”

We both know that’s a lie. Some days, I love this job so much it should be illegal.

“Pack on the ground, Candidate. Open it up. Take your time. I have all night, and you have no say in the matter.”

Around us, people keep their eyes on their own camps, pretending not to notice a thing. Nobody wants an inspection to be theirs.

Onyx Mercer swallows whatever he was going to say and crouches over the buckles. His hands miss the first one. “It’s open, sir.”

The Calder vowels catch beneath the words, and damn, I love that accent.

I go through the pack slowly because I can.

“Clothes folded into squares. Food weighed to the gram. Repair kit, fishing line, a med kit that actually deserves the name.” I set each item on the ground beside him. “And yet.”

The bandage roll has already been opened. Part of it is gone.

I look at it, set it down without comment, and keep digging.

Under the med-kit, my fingers find a small braided cord threaded through a dull metal washer, the sort of thing that costs nothing at any machine shop on any planet.

He lunges for it, but I lift it clear before his hand closes, clicking my tongue.

Oh, now this is interesting.

Rolling the washer between two fingers, I turn it over and weigh it in my palm.

“That’s not...” His voice cracks. “That’s not yours to touch.”

“No?” I turn it over again. “Candidate, everything inside this rope is mine to touch.”

His breathing grows shallow.

I look back at the washer. The metal has been worn smooth around the edges from years of handling, and letters have been scratched into one side by hand.

Find your way home. Onyx.

“What’s this supposed to be?” I ask. “You Calder people carry little charms now?”

His hand rises before he seems to realize he’s doing it. “It’s just luck. We carry them into the Hunt. To come home again.”

“Luck, hm.” I glance at the inscription again, but make no move to return it. “That’s interesting.”

He reaches for it, so I lift my hand a fraction higher.

“Give it back.”

“Why? I’m still looking at it.”

His jaw tightens. “Please.”