The locker room was empty, lights low, the echo of blades and cheers still lingering from the game. The scent of sweat and steel clung to the air—familiar, masculine, dangerous. You slipped through the shadows, eyes scanning for any trace, any clue, any thread to unravel the truth.

But he was already there.

Kane Davenport.

Leaning back on the bench like he’d been waiting all along.

One arm draped casually over the backrest, the other twirling his jersey between fingers dusted with bruises and dried blood. That charming smirk—always more mask than expression—curled at the edges of his mouth.

He didn’t rise. He didn’t need to.

Because you had just walked into his den.

You’d marked him as the weak one. The green flag. The distraction.

But the air shifted as he stood, fluid and slow, like a storm winding its way through silence. His eyes—too calm, too knowing—locked onto yours with razor-sharp precision.

And in that moment, the walls around you crumbled.

He wasn’t the weakest link.

He was the venom that laced the fangs.

The one who smiled as he dragged you beneath the surface, not with violence—but with a game you didn’t even realize you were playing until he’d already won.

And now?

Now the hunter was the prey.

And Kane Davenport?

He never let anything go once it belonged to him.