Primal Pursuit

Chapter

One

POPPY

I’m goingto kill Davian Stark.

Put a bullet between his eyes.

Carve him up, cut him into pieces.

Bludgeon him with a baseball bat.

The possibilities are endless, and I’ve fantasized about all sorts of ways to make him suffer. The bloodier the fantasy, the more excited I get.

I quit questioning my sanity a long time ago, so I’m not concerned that the thought of him dying by my hand has me sightly turned on right now. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, the thrill of hunting the hunter while pretending to be prey. Or perhaps I’m just fucked up. I don’t care either way. All I care about is playing this sick motherfucker and bringing him all the way down to his knees, where he’ll beg for my mercy. But I’ll show him none.

I’ll make him suffer, just like he made my family suffer.

Before he murdered them.

Ten long years of devotion to this plan of destruction and revenge have led to this moment.

Me, standing outside the large double doors of this debauched sex den.

Club Myth.

Elegance drapes the Victorian-style mansion, the moon casting a midnight glow over the white pillars as if it, too, knows the wealth hidden between these double-story walls. Autumn’s chill licks across my skin, causing me to shiver.

Two women trying to suppress their annoying giggling click up in their Jimmy Choo stiletto heels and brush past me, their long, flowing burgundy dresses hiding their lack of underwear. Still, their gravity-defying tits are practically bursting out of their necklines.

I follow them inside, watching as one of them positions her black lace mask, ensuring it’s tied perfectly at the back along her perfect blonde updo.

We’re all elegant dresses, naked necks, and bare pussies here, per the clearly stated rules. Nowhere did I see a preferred color, but the women here seemed to like to offer themselves in burgundy and black.

If it were up to me, I’d waltz in here wearing a black leather pantsuit with two beautifully deadly Glock G17s, aiming both at Davian Stark’s forehead. Unfortunately, my plot for revenge doesn’t involve spontaneous acts of violence or harsh and hasty murders. Revenge is like a seedling, something that needs to be sown at the right time in the right environment. When it starts to sprout, it takes the right amount of sunlight, water, and nurturing before it can grow into its perfect form. And that’s what I’mpatiently waiting for…Davian’s death in the perfect fucking form.

Instead, I’m wearing a black satin sleeveless crisscross halter dress that hugs my waist, accentuating my cup size and curvy hips before the fabric parts with a front split. It’s sexy. Flashy. Eye-catching. And something Jacinta Harris would wear. Tonight, that’s me. I’m Jacinta Harris. She’s about my height with the same black-brown hair color. She might be a few years older, rich, fucked up in the hurt-me-Daddy-please way some sugar babies have, but with us both having surface similarities, I think I can pull this off.

The real Jacinta Harris is an unhappy housewife to a husband who prefers late-night blowjobs in his office by his secretary to his wife between silk sheets. It took me weeks with an excellent blackmail scheme to procure her identity for tonight. Turns out, as much as Jacinta hates her cheating husband, she loves the wealthy lifestyle more and would hate for their dirty laundry to air on every fucking tabloid in Chicago.

Now, the mask? That’s all me. Poppy Moore’s little inside joke. It’s an elegant metal rabbit Venetian mask with intricate detail and shiny diamond rhinestones shimmering along the edges of the dainty little ears. After all, I am the prey tonight and will be for as long as it takes to bring this hunter to his knees.

My heels click across the marble floor as I glance around, taking in the rich, elegant interior. Myth forms an intricate part of a world governed by the Dark Sovereign, a society of men who own this city from the deepest parts of the underground to the highest political positions. Thisexclusive sex club is where they allow their most elite men to shed their suits and wear their scales of sin and lust.

The Elite Seven.

A group of men ordained with the most supreme ranks within this guild. And that’s who I’m here for, one of the Elites.

I don’t have a bag—security issues and all that—but I do have my fake ID in my palm as I walk up to the hostess dressed in a black pencil skirt and skintight bodysuit. This woman reeks of confidence, her status between these walls confirmed by the sharp square of her shoulders. She’s clutching an iPad, and without looking at me, she holds out her palm. “ID.”

There’s a slight uptick in my pulse as I hand it to her.

She glances at it, then at me, her eyes narrowed. “Jacinta Harris?”

“That’s what it says.” I’m cocky. I’m also impatient.

The hostess reaches for her earpiece, listening intently to whoever is whispering in her ear before she hands my ID to the muscle standing three steps behind her. “You’ll get it back when you leave. Join the others,” she orders and turns her back as she strolls past the group to take the lead. “Ladies, follow me.”