“Look at them. All of them—squirming, scampering, panicking like headless fucking cattle.” Killian mutters under his breath beside me, probably making one of his poetic little observations about the "scattering of prey" or whatever. He’s always been good at sounding calm while fantasizing about blood.

The air is thick with everything I love—greed, fear, the kind of manic desperation that makes people do stupid shit. It's the scent of chaos. It's home.

The club? I couldn’t give a shit about its so-called “mission.” Brotherhood, legacy, rules. All noise. Nights like these are the only time I feel alive in this place. No suits. No speeches. Just the hunt.

“Motherfucking salivating is the word you’re looking for, Kill,” I growl, clenching and unclenching my fists, ready to paint the night with screams. “I’m gonna break some bones and drag fuckers across the ground. If anyone dares to stop me, they’ll meet the same fate.”

This game was my idea. I brought it to the table during one of those long, dragged-out meetings. Jeremy put it to a vote like a good little chairman. Unanimous. Even Killian voted yes, which surprised the hell out of me.

Maybe my boring brother isn’t so boring after all. Not with that bow strapped across his back like he’s auditioning for some rich-boy Hunger Games reboot.

Closed-circle violence. That’s more his style. Quiet, efficient. Like when we used to hunt with Dad. Back when things made a little more sense.

I eye Gareth poking around his gear. Rubber tips? Seriously?

“That rubber on the arrows, Gaz?” I tap the point with my knuckle. “This probably won’t hurt as much. Pick something else.”

“I’ll do,” Killian says, and before I can make some comment, he’s patting me down like he’s my parole officer.

“Where’s your weapon?” he asks.

I throw a few jabs into the air. “I prefer my fists.”

Jeremy snorts. “You won’t be able to win with your fists.” He swings his golf club like he’s prepping for a tournament, then nods to Killian’s bat and the chain in Vaughn’s hand. “We’ll be able to hunt more than you.”

“That’s what you think.” I slam a hand down on the railing and shove my mask right up into one of the cameras, lips stretched in a grin they can’t see but will feel in their bones. “You better keep the right count for each of us, motherfuckers, or I’ll skin your balls for dinner.”

“Hannibal Lecter much?” Gareth mutters, tone bone-dry.

I swing my head toward him, eyes narrowing behind the mask. “You. Don’t even think about intervening or playing the fucking pacifist tonight, cousin. I mean it.”

Killian starts moving, bat slung over his shoulder like a war banner. Jeremy calls after him.

“Where are you going? The ten minutes aren’t up yet.”

Killian doesn’t even look back. I hear the grin in his voice.

“Since when do we play fair?”

I laugh, wild and loud, as the others start shouting behind me and the hunt creeps closer. My blood sings with anticipation.

Time to feed the darkness.