Primal Pursuit

I can practically feel the excitement of the other women dance across my skin, its poison slowly seeping through my pores to infect me, too. The air is charged with lust, eroticism clinging to the gold decorated halls, seduction looming overhead within the warm lighting. There’s a subtle scent of vanilla, yet it smells like sex and debauchery. It’s caressing me, the slow burn of anticipation, and there’s a gentle tug in my belly that resemblesdesire. It’s impossible to be within these walls and not be affected by the sexual pulses that seem to run rampant here.

The hostess recites the rules. “No names or personal information will be exchanged. You do not choose. They choose you. And if you are unhappy with the Elite who has chosen you, you are free to leave. But if you do, you will never gain entrance to one of these events again.”

I should be listening, but I’m not. I can’t. I’m a live wire inside because my quarry…he’s here. I know he is.

“Most importantly,” she turns to face us, her chin held high, “once you walk out of here tonight, you will live like this place does not exist.”

She doesn’t wait for everyone’s nod of agreement. We’ve already signed on the dotted line, their NDA agreements practically cutting out our tongues.

The second she opens the large floor-to-ceiling double doors and we walk inside, my eyes dart around the room in search of my mark. But the Elite isn’t here yet, so I breathe and calm my heart as I take it all in. Red velvet paneled walls surround us, the area dimly lit. In the center is a round mahogany table, pristinely polished to glossy perfection, with a French empire chandelier and its black crystals dangling above it.

The altar.

The place where women offer themselves to the gods like meek sheep, eager to be slaughtered for a chance to have their filthiest fantasy come true.

My skin erupts with chills as I take in the grand double staircase that leads to the second floor. Everything about this room is decadent and refined, the exact opposite onewould expect from a sex club. But then again, this isn’t any sex club.

The hostess turns to face us, her green eyes pausing for a second at every one of our faces. “You’ve all signed the non-disclosure agreements and completed the necessary paperwork, but this is the part where you ask yourselves if you can surrender completely.” She speaks like she’s said these exact words a thousand times before, reciting it like a written law. “If not, walk out that door now. This is not a place for doubts or insecurities. Shame or embarrassment. If you can’t trust the process, you must leave.”

Oh, I have my own process.

A door opens in the corner of the room, and I watch every man with intent as the Elite walk in—masked and armored with expensive black suits. I glance up at the mezzanine and see the seventh man, masked and gazing at us with a woman dressed in white at his side. Rumor has it the seventh no longer participates in these soirees, but he and his new wife love to watch.

I drag my attention back to the six men in front of us. My palms are clammy as I search for him, and I hold my breath the entire time. But their masked faces are shadowed under the dim light, making it impossible to find him.

“Tonight, we’ll do things differently than usual.”

Fuck.

I don’t like different.

Different means unpredictable, which also means I’m not fully prepared for whatever is about to change in tonight’s events. But I keep my composure as the hostess continues her speech.

“Instead of getting on that table and lying back, you’ll be bent over it, skirts up, and receiving at least one lash from each Elite. Whether by his palm or his whip.”

Two men push a rack through the side door and place it a few feet from the table. A rush catapults through me as my gaze sweeps across the array of whips and floggers. I’m no stranger to pleasure and pain, and I live with my life without boundaries, chasing excitement while I wait for the sweet taste of my revenge. And there is nothing exciting about vanilla sex.

Whispers erupt from the crowd of women, and the tension in the room just went up threefold.

“If you’re lucky…” She raises her voice to silence everyone. “If you’re lucky, you’ll be chosen before the lashes become…too much for you to handle.”

Heat explodes across my skin with awareness.

Someone is watching me.

Undressing, positioning, contemplating.

It’s a weird feeling, like being a piece of meat, coveted and valued, all at the same time.

It’s him. I know it is.

Davian Stark.

I can feel those cold green eyes on my flesh, but I can’t see which one of the six he is, and it’s fucking with my head—knowing I’m this close to him, yet I don’t know where he is. For a moment, I’m that little girl again, the one whose Momma tells her to hide because there’s a bad man in the house. I tried searching for him while my mother begged me to run, but I couldn’t see anyone and thought she might be playing.

If only she were just playing.

I hid in the closet that day—a twelve-year-old numb with fear, trying not to make a sound as he taunted my father then shot him and my mother in the head.