Page 24 of Beautiful Prey

On the next feed, two men have another candidate on the ground.

One kicks him in the stomach while the other stamps on his shoulder. The man curls around his head, but they keep going.

I finish my wine and switch feeds.

North checkpoint. Third shelter row.

Him.

Asleep on his side, the pack tucked beneath his knees and the knife within reach of his right hand. The cheap jacket is zipped to his chin. Even fear yields to exhaustion eventually. His blond hair has dried in soft disorder across his forehead, and beneath it, his face has finally stopped working so hard. Jaw loose. Mouth parted. The long line of his throat moves as he swallows in his sleep.

I should move to the next feed, yet my thumb stays where it is.

By the time I realize how long I’ve been watching him, my glass is empty.

“What did it see, Onyx Mercer?”

The cabin has as much to say about that as I do.

The scanner has never buzzed. Not once. Thousands of hands, and Dad retells that fact every season. Then this one put his palm on the glass, and the whole machine lit amber and hesitated.

Machines don’t make mistakes. Dad built his life on that belief.

Though it’s less impressive than he thinks. Nobody desperate enough to queue for the Hunt has ever had much to hide.

Until him.

So what the fuck did it see?

And why do I keep looking for it?

The heat from the rope line still lingers low in me. Watching him sleep only makes it worse.

Then my multi-slate lights up.

Ryven: also somebody claimed the northwest sector before assignments even posted. suuuubtle

SEREN: The empty sector.

Ryven: first the scanner, now the sector. should we tell the blond one i gift-wrapped at checkpoint one or keep it a surprise

ME: Some of us are on duty, you dickheads.

Ryven: HE ANSWERS

Ryven: noting that. for the record

Stretching my legs beneath the console, I sink farther into the chair, spread my knees, lock the slate, and drop it face-down.

My gaze goes straight back to Onyx, who’s still asleep. I watch his chest rise beneath the cheap jacket, then fall again.

What would a man like him dream about?

My cock is already hard in my fist, has been since his pulse hammered against my thumb at the rope line, and I stroke myself while keeping my eyes exactly where they’ve been all evening. On the feed. On his throat working through a swallow in his sleep. On the hand that disappeared into mine, curled loose beside the knife he’d never reach in time.

My gaze stays fixed on Onyx. Fuck me, I’ve lost my mind, but he is drop-dead gorgeous. Besides, why shouldn't I enjoy myself?

A rope would look good around that throat.