Callum steps outside to relieve himself, and I crack open another bottle of water, wishing I had some way to turn the remaining bedclothes—or maybe one of the towels?—into a shirt for myself. But with no needle, thread, or sewing ability, that option is looking pretty remote. Maybe I could fold one of the sheets into a loose robe…

When the door opens at my back, I smile. Then I freeze, my pulse racing in my ears. Callum can’t open the door. He should have to knock so I can let him back in.

“Maci Bishop.” The voice is male, and though I’ve only heard it a couple of times before, it’s enough like his dead brother’s that I would know who’s speaking even if Scott Hansen weren’t the only other person in the hunting enclosure. “Turn around slowly and hold your hands up where I can see them.”

As if I’m hiding a weapon. As if I have anywhere to even keep a weapon, if I found one.

Slowly, I rise to my knees and turn, my arms bent up at the elbows, palms out. Hansen stands in front of the closed door, his supply pack on the floor, aiming his rifle at my chest. His infrared goggles are resting on the narrow brim of his helmet, and just above them, a black dot reminds me that everything he sees is being broadcast to spectators back at the Resort from the built-in camera.

My murder will have a live audience.

“At first, I couldn’t figure out how you got in here,” he says. “Then I noticed that the pane in the door had a little gap at the bottom.” His focus takes in the rest of the cabin before snapping back to me. “I hope you had a nice meal. Because it was your last.”

I glance over his shoulder at the window, hoping for a glimpse of Callum, but if he’s still out there, I can’t see him. Did Hansen find him? Shoot him?

Is Callum dead?

No. My heartbeat races. No! He can’t be. Whatever he did to get sent here, he doesn’t deserve to be hunted for sport by some rich asshole with a laser rifle. For the entertainment of a bunch of other rich assholes.

“Don’t move,” Hansen warns, and while he aims his rifle at me one-handed, he removes his helmet with his other hand and sets it on a shelf near the window. Then he very deliberately turns it to face the bed. “To give our audience a better view.”

Hansen slaps one hand against the wall, feeling for the panel by the door. Light floods the room from overhead, and I blink while my eyes try to adjust.

“I say a better view because they already have that one…” He points up at the corner of the room, and when I squint in that direction, I notice a small camera nearly hidden in the shadows. “You and your boyfriend put on quite a show.”

My face flames at the thought of strangers watching. I knew there were cameras hidden in the woods. Steven told me as much, in his room at the Resort. But he’d also said…

“You’re not supposed to have access to that.” Footage and location information about the inmate being hunted was for the audience only, because giving it to the hunter would be “unsporting.” As if cheating could possibly be any bigger an insult to the quarry than being hunted like an animal in the first place.

Hansen shrugs, but the stiff line of his jaw betrays his frustration. “The warden really wants you dead.”

“You mean you couldn’t find me fast enough, so he told you where to look?”

His eyes narrow. “I mean that the other customers are eager to watch you pay for what you did to my brother.”

Eager because they’re bloodthirsty bastards, or eager because…

“They’re nervous, aren’t they?” There’s something important not in what he’s saying, but in what he’s not saying… “They’re worried the same thing could happen to them. That one of the other women will fight back. Have there been cancellations?”

He grinds his teeth instead of answering. Scott Hansen should never play poker.

“There have been, haven’t there? Customers are scared, and the warden is worried that this whole house of cards is going to fall down right at his feet. Isn’t he?”

“Let’s just say he wants your death to be a painful and bloody promise, both to the customers and to your fellow inmates. And I’m happy to oblige.”

“Where’s Callum?” I demand, shifting on my bruised knees. Gritting my teeth to keep tears at bay. This bastard does not get to see my fear.

“Your boyfriend should be waking up any moment. It wouldn’t have been very sportsmen-like of me to kill him when I didn’t hunt him down fair and square, so I stunned him with a compression wave. This way, he can watch you die, before the hounds show up to scare him off. So I can track him down again.”

Suddenly the air feels too thick to breathe. This is real. He’s pointing a rifle at my chest and the door behind him is locked. I am unarmed, untrained, and I have no hope of a rescue. The only real question is why he hasn’t shot me yet. Is he waiting, just to prolong my fear? “You’re sick.”

“Actually, what I am is very, very wealthy.”

“And that’ll buy you anything, won’t it?” I don’t know what to do, other than keep him talking.

“Money won’t buy back my brother’s life. But killing you is the next best thing. Strip and lie down on the bed.”

“What?” My head feels light. The room feels a little unsteady. “No. Please.”

“Steven paid for a fuck and a hunt, and I’m going to get his money’s worth.”

“No.” I close my eyes and take a long deep breath, silently pleading with my head to stop spinning. My pulse to slow. So I can think. “Just kill me.”

“Strip and lie down, or I’ll shoot a hole in your leg. The laser will cauterize the wound, so you won’t bleed to death until I’m damn well ready for you to die. But you’ll spend your last half hour in agonizing pain.”

“Okay. Wait. Just listen.” I have no weapon to wield except my voice, and I’ve never been a good talker. Before Callum, I rarely even tried. “I’m sorry about your brother. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted him to leave me alone. If you’re going to kill me anyway, please just shoot me in the head and get it over with.”

Hansen lifts his rifle, aiming at my thigh, but before he can fire, something thumps against the window at his back.

Callum pounds on the pane again, his face red with rage, his lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl. He’s shouting, and the only word I can make out is my own name. But the gist is clear.

“Your boyfriend’s here.” Hansen steps to the side, where he can keep us both in view. “He can’t get in, but with the light on, he should have a good view.” He lunges at me and pulls me up by my hair, then throws me against the wall next to the bed.

Air bursts from my lungs and before I can suck in another breath, Hansen has a knife at my throat. “You’re going to lie down and play nice, or I’m going to stick this into your side, and your boyfriend can watch you bleed out underneath me. How’s that sound?”

With his rifle hanging from a shoulder strap, he grabs my arm and pushes me toward the bed, the tip of his knife pressing into my ribs.

“Maci!” Callum shouts, but I can’t look at him as Hansen shoves me onto the mattress on my back. Callum pounds against the window again, and one of the polymer panes falls into the cabin. He shouts something new, and a half-second later, a voice comes from Hansen’s helmet—a translation, in a voice that sounds just like Callum.

“You fucking son of a bitch, I’ll kill you. Let her go! I’m going to pull your tongue out through your asshole and tie a knot in it.”

“Colorful, isn’t he?” Hansen laughs, but the sound has a bitter undertone. And now that the helmet has detected another language, it’s translating for all three of us.

“You’re scared of Callum,” I accuse Hansen as I push myself across the small bed, toward the corner of the room. “If you didn’t have your weapons and a locked door, you wouldn’t come anywhere near him. That’s the attraction, isn’t it? Weak desk-jockey assholes like you can vacation on Devil’s Eye and make yourselves feel like real men by shooting unarmed prisoners in the back. But what you’re really trying to kill is your own inferiority complex.” I turn to face his helmet camera. “And you bastards playing the at-home version are even worse. You’re all just as much a criminal as I am!”

“Keep talking,” Hansen snaps. “You’re only making it worse for yourself.”

“Come out here and face me like a man you pathetic coward!” The helmet echoes Callum’s shouting in the common language, and the irony of the fact that I can finally understand him now that I’m about to die feels like a knife plunging right into my heart. “I’ll feed you to your own metal hounds a piece at a time!”

“Callum, get out of here!” I shout at him, and the helmet translates for me. “Take the fucking head start!” Save yourself!

“I’m not leaving you, Maci,” he growls. Then he turns back to Hansen. “And you! I’m going nail you to the wall of this cabin and show you your own organs as I cut them out!”

Hansen sets his gun on the floor and unbuttons his pants, still holding his knife.

“Please,” I beg as I lose the battle against tears. “Send the dogs. Run him off.” I don’t want Callum to see any of this.

“Oh, I will. As soon as your heart stops beating.” He grabs my foot and hauls me across the bed toward him. I try to kick free, but he brandishes the knife so that if I kick again, the blade will go right through the sole of my foot. Then he climbs on top of me, his knife at my throat, while Callum pounds another pane from the window, shouting so hard that spittle flies from his mouth. “Push your shorts down. Carefully.” Hansen runs the blade lightly over my throat, while I sniffle, struggling to take shallow, cautious breaths. “I’d hate for this to be over too quickly.”

But I wouldn’t. He’s going to kill me anyway. And he’s going to make Callum choose between abandoning me and watching me die.

At least I can die on my own terms.

Instead of reaching for my shorts, I grab Hansen’ fist. The one holding the knife. Then I suck in a deep breath and pull it toward me. Pushing the blade against my skin.

“No!” Hansen fights me, trying to lift the knife from my throat, clearly unwilling to let me die until he’s had his fun.

“Kill me.” I pull the knife harder and feel the blade press into my neck. Any second, it will break my skin. “Kill me or release me.” If I’m going to die anyway, I’m not going to let him torture me first.

“Let go!” he shouts. But I pull harder, and when I feel the blade bite into my flesh, he jerks the knife up and away from my throat. Seizing the sudden opening, I knee him in the groin as hard as I can. Hansen falls over on the bed, dry heaving, one hand clutching his crotch, the other clutching his knife.

I scramble off the bed, grab the rifle from the floor, and race across the small space toward the exit.

Hansen bellows, and springs creak behind me as gets to his feet, but he’s too late. I throw back the bolt and Callum’s there the second I open the door. He snatches the rifle from my grip on his way into the room, shouting something the helmet translates as, “Stay behind me!”

Then, before I can even draw a deep breath, he aims the rifle and fires.

It clicks ineffectually.

Hansen laughs, brandishing his knife, but he’s still bent over in pain. “Call the dogs. Converge on my signal,” he orders, and a green flash of light from the device on his wrist confirms the command.

Shit. I close the door behind me, even though the cabin is now cramped and full of weapons and rage, because it’s safer in here than out there with the robo-dogs.

“You can’t fire my rifle,” Hansen says.

Oh yeah. “The triggers only respond to a pre-programmed fingerprint. And the finger behind it has to be at body temperature.” Just like the guards’ guns. I’d learned that back in zone four.

Callum shrugs and tosses the rifle up, then catches it by the barrel, wielding it like a club. “Yeah, well, he’s still brought a knife to a gun fight.” He swings, and Hansen falls back on the bed to avoid the blow. But then he has nowhere left to go.

The next swing breaks the hunter’s wrist with a soft crack. Hansen howls, and the knife falls onto the mattress while he clutches his arm, where a white tip of bone shows through torn skin. Blood pours from the wound, and I adjust the helmet to make sure our audience has a good view.

Callum swings again, and I hear a gristly popping sound as Hansen’s kneecap is knocked out of place, moving eerily beneath his skin. He screams—a sound more like a dying rabbit than a grown man—and the next swing leaves a gruesome dent in the side of his head.

Hansen’s arms fall limp at his sides. He blinks sluggishly, but his eyes are already losing focus.

Callum is angrily mumbling something too soft for the helmet to pick up, but I hear my name. He grunts as he swings again, arms flexing with the effort, and this blow caves in the entire side of the hunter’s skull.

Hansen stares sightlessly up at the cabin ceiling.

Callum drops the rifle and turns to me, his gaze raking over me as he searches for injuries. “Are you okay?” The helmet translates for me. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine.”

He pulls me into a tight embrace, my face squished against the bulge of a thick bicep, and into my hair he says something the helmet translates as, “It’s strange how that thing imitates our voices.”

I laugh, and the sound carries a thread of hysteria. His observation sounds so normal, after what’s just happened, and I’m still riding an emotional rollercoaster, not sure if I should be laughing or crying.

“Yes,” I agree. “But it’s great to understand what you’re saying. Also…” I pull free and glance pointedly at the corpse on the bed. “Thanks for that.”

“I’d kill him for you a dozen times, if I could. But we have to get out of here before the metal hounds arrive.”

“Metal hounds.” It’s weird to have an exact translation of his term for the robo-dogs. And it’s weird to hear everything we both say spoken in two different languages. But that’s infinitely better than playing another game of life-or-death charades.

“Help me undress him,” Callum says.

“If we take the helmet and wrist com, we’ll be able to find and access the other cabins and ration stations, but they’ll be able to track us non-stop.” As opposed to intermittently, when we walk past a camera hidden somewhere in the trees. “Not that that matters, since he’s dead.”

“They’ll send the hounds after us using that signal.” Callum kneels and pulls Hansen’s boots off, one at a time. “And if that doesn’t work, they’ll send guards in after us. The signal’s too much of a risk.”

“But without the helmet, we can’t understand each other.”

He aims a heated glance at me as he tugs on the already open waistband of the hunter’s pants. “I think we understand each other pretty well, hellkitten.”

“Hell kitten? Is that what you’ve been calling me?” I frown. “Is that an accurate translation? In the common language, the closest term is hellcat.”

“We have that term in my language too. But you’re too small to be a hellcat. So, you’re my hellkitten.”

I arch my brows at him. “I can’t decide whether that’s a compliment or an insult.”

He looks amused. “In case you haven’t noticed the way my cock responds to you, you should take pretty much anything I say as the highest compliment. Now please come help me, before we get trapped in here by your ‘robo-dogs.’”

Together, we hurriedly undress the hunter. His boots turn out to be too small for Callum, but the reddish camouflage pants are a decent fit. He tosses Hansen’s lightweight, insulated black shirt at me, then he shoves his arms into a jacket that matches his new pants.

Though the stretchy material of the shirt clung to Hansen, it’s more like a short dress on me, but that’s infinitely better than running around the woods in my underwear. Conversely, the jacket is too tight for Callum’s thickly muscled torso, so he leaves it unbuttoned, exposing his bulging chest and chiseled abs. And I’m pretty fine with that. As long as I get the wrist com.

“Leave it.” Callum puts his hand over mine when I try to unstrap the screen from Hansen’s arm. “We can’t take that risk.”

I hesitate, glancing at the helmet in frustration. Whatever the helmet translates for him, our audience will hear. But without the translation, I won’t be able to convince him that the screen could be more use to us than burden.

“I think I can reprogram it,” I say at last.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to say any more, with them listening.” I throw another glance at the helmet. Then up at the camera in one corner of the room. “But you have to trust me. That’s…how I wound up here.”

“You’re a hacker?”

“A damn good one. But I can’t do anything with this tech until we find someplace else safe enough for me to start working. And the hounds are on their way.”

He hesitates for a second. Then he nods. “Put that thing on, and let’s go.”

While I strap the screen onto my wrist, he shrugs into Hansen’s supply pack, then picks up the helmet and aims the camera at himself. “Fuck you, Shaw. And fuck your personal friends, and all your pathetic spectators. This is our game now.” Then he puts the helmet on his head, settles the rifle strap on his shoulder, and opens the door.

I throw my makeshift food bag over my shoulder and start to follow him out. Then I remember…

“Um, Callum…?” I say. He turns back with an expectant arch of one dark brow. “I’m gonna need a hand. Or, more accurately, a finger.” I lift Hansen’s right hand to clarify, expecting Callum to refuse. Or at least hesitate. But he only shrugs and pulls Hansen’s knife from the sheath strapped to his belt.

I watch, both fascinated and repulsed, as he holds Hansen’s right index finger in his clenched fist, then uses the serrated knife to saw through the knuckle connecting it to his palm. As if that were not a new experience for him. Then he wraps the finger in a rag from the shelf and hands it to me.

On the way out of the cabin, I decide never to ask Callum what he did to get sentenced to Devil’s Eye.