“Don’t make me say it again.” The voice is male. Not obviously young, but not old either.

Slowly, I turn to face him, my gaze glued to the carpet. My toes look pale, half-buried in the plush pile.

“Drop your hands.”

I let my arms fall to my sides and dig my toes into the carpet, trying to think about nothing at all as his gaze roams over me. I can feel his attention like the heat from a bonfire I’m standing too close to. Not warm and comforting, but blisteringly painful.

I think my soul is starting to singe.

“How old are you?”

I’m not sure whether he’s trying to make sure I’m legal—though surely none of this is legal—or hoping I’m not.

“Twenty Earth-standard solar units,” I whisper.

He doesn’t ask my name or offer me his.

“Sit on one of the couches.” The man marches past me, headed for the bar, and in my peripheral vision, I can see the lump in his pants. So, I close my eyes. “If I have to tell you again, there will be consequences,” he adds.

I open my eyes and hurry across the room to the nearest of the couches. I wonder how much of a security deposit he paid for me. And whether he expects to get any of it back.

“Are you hungry?” he asks as I settle onto a black leather cushion. “It doesn’t look like they feed you much.”

Here, they haven’t. But yesterday I ate fresh rabbit, still sizzling from the spit. That may sound like a ridiculous thing to eat, to a man who can afford all of this, but in Settlement A, fresh meat is a feast of the highest order.

I shake my head. I’m afraid I would vomit whatever I ate all over him.

The man shrugs on the edge of my vision, then tosses a purple berry into his mouth. “Would you like a drink?”

I’m pretty sure I could keep a drink down. Maybe that would even settle my stomach. Maybe he will let me drink enough to pass out, and I can just sleep through this entire nightmare.

Or maybe all the other ladies will get in trouble if I pass out and can’t be an active participant in my own torture.

I shake my head again.

“Suit yourself. Screen.”

At first, I think I’ve misheard him. Maybe he’s commanding me to scream. Then something flashes on the right of my field of vision and I look up to see that the window pane in front of the couches has become a viewing screen, showing two large men fighting in some kind of arena, surrounded by hundreds of other male prisoners, cheering them on.

“They only show a couple of feeds here,” the man at the bar says as glass clinks and liquid pours. “And while I like the fights…” There’s another clink, and the reflection in the middle window pane shows me that he’s dropped a glass stopper into a decanter. “…tonight I’m here to watch my brother’s hunt. Feed two.”

The scene on the screen changes, and suddenly I’m looking at a man in reddish camouflage pants and a matching hunting jacket, being fitted with a helmet sporting an integrated camera. “Is it supposed to be this tight?” The man on screen plucks at the clingy material of the shirt beneath his open jacket, and someone off screen assures him that it is.

The caption at the bottom of the window pane reads, “Scott Hansen.”

If that man is the brother of the man who rented me—with a security deposit—then the man behind me must also be a Mr. Hansen.

“Mute,” Hansen says, and the screen goes silent. “Have you ever seen the hunt?” He rounds the couch I’m on and sits next to me, holding a glass of amber liquid, with two floating ice cubes. “Wait, of course you haven’t. You’re new, right?”

I nod, relieved to note that while I am completely nude, he’s still fully dressed.

“You can probably see some of it from over there.” He points at the middle window pane, to the right of the screen still showing his brother. When I don’t get up to look, he nudges my shoulder with his own. “Go on. We’re not that high up. You should be able to see something.”

I go, not because I want to see something, but because he’s already told me that if he has to repeat an order there will be consequences.

I can feel the man watching me as I walk toward the window, my arms stiff at my sides, my bare skin prickled with chill bumps from the cold, climate controlled air. Below, on the broad, rust-colored lawn stand several huge light fixtures bright enough illuminate the tall metal wall surrounding the grounds. At the rear of the lawn, there’s a heavy-duty gate. Through the gate and over that back section of the wall, I can see a huge swath of the deep red forest.

Closer to the building I’m in, almost directly below the window, I see Scott Hansen in his hunting clothes and helmet, standing there on the lawn in the middle of that bright puddle of light. At least a dozen people are at work all around him, helping him prepare equipment. Adjusting the lights. Aiming small, high-tech cameras.

Whatever’s happening on the lawn is being broadcast on the screen in this room, and presumably in all the other rooms as well.

“You see him?” the man behind me asks. “That’s my brother. Scott. He’s forty-five today. This was my gift to him. And to myself.” His voice grows husky with lust, and my eyes close as I suppress a shudder. “The Resort, on Rhodon. Hell of a birthday present, huh?”

I can only nod. I have no idea what a hunting trip to Rhodon costs, but Audra, Tyson, and I spent the past month hunting in zone four for free. Our biggest catch was a turkey. Surely Scott Hansen hopes to bring in something bigger. I don’t understand why anyone would come all the way to the edge of the galaxy just to hunt. Or use a prostitute.

The knowledge that that’s what I’ve become settles over me with a more pressing weight than Hansen’s expectant gaze. A colder touch than the air on my bare skin.

I don’t know what he’s going to expect of me, but whatever it is, surely it’s better than what Danna endured in zone six. Better than what would await me in zone four, without Audra and Tyson.

On the lawn below, someone hands the hunter a long black rifle. Light flashes from the top of it, and when I glance at the screen, I realize it’s glaring from the lens of some kind of scope. And that Scott now has a pair of goggles wrapped around his helmet, waiting to be lowered onto his head.

“Infrared,” Hansen says from the couch. “So he can see in the dark.”

I frown, curious in spite of the circumstances. At least having something to watch out there helps distract me from what’s about to happen in here.

Hansen sees a reflection of my frown in the window pane and laughs. “I know, it seems nuts to start at night huh? I think they do that for the adrenaline factor. But I know for a fact that Scott’s planning to sleep during the day and hunt at night, while it’s cooler. See that thing on his wrist?”

I glance at the viewing screen again. The hunter has a thin, curved com device strapped to his forearm. I squint, trying to identify the model. It’s the kind of thing typically used by law enforcement, virtually identical to the coms I’ve seen on the arm of every guard here.

My fingers spasm with the ghost of an urge to type. My eyes hunger for the glow of the screen, the scroll of the code as I scan for the block I need… I would give anything for a closer look at that tech.

Hansen sees my interest. “It’s a communications portal with satellite positioning. It won’t tell him where his prey is, nor will it show him footage from any of the cameras hidden in the woods. Because that wouldn’t be sporting. But it’ll point him to any of the cabins or ration stations in the enclosure.”

I frown down at the lawn. How big is this enclosure? How long will this hunt last? If we’d had satellite positioning, infrared goggles, and a rifle, Ty, Audra, and I could have shot every turkey in zone four within a week.

“Come watch with me.” Hansen pats the couch cushion, and my eyes fall closed again, the enclosure forgotten. The tech forgotten. I can’t move. He clears his throat. “I said—”

I turn, and for the first time I see his face. He looks like his brother, down to the malicious gleam of anticipation in his eyes. I struggle to breathe around the lump in my throat as I sink onto the couch.

He laughs at the distance I’ve put between us. “I’m not that bad, am I?”

I fold my hands in my lap and stare at them.

“What, can’t you talk?” When I don’t answer, he grabs my chin and turns my face toward him. His gaze has gone hard. His grip hurts. “You told me your age. Why go silent now?”

I clear my throat, but my voice comes out as less than a whisper. “Because nothing I say will change any of this.”

“True enough.” He lets me go, yet I can still feel the pain of his cruel grip. “But then, that’s your fault, isn’t it? Good girls don’t get sent to the Red Rock.”

“And good men don’t buy unwilling women.” I don’t know where the words came from. They flew from my mouth before I could even taste them on my tongue, and for a second, they hang between us. Echoing in my mind like a roll of thunder.

He looks as surprised as I am. Then he sets his drink on the coffee table, and his arm flies.

The back of his right hand smashes into my left cheek, and I hit the back of the couch so hard that my ribs hurt almost as much as my face does. For a moment, I can’t think. I’m not even sure what happened. All I know is that I’m naked and I hurt.

“Consequences,” the man growls. Then he hooks his hands behind my knees and pulls me forward until I’m lying on the couch beneath him. It takes a second for his face to come into focus, because it’s backlit by the light from the ceiling. And because I’m still reeling from the blow.

He unbuckles his pants and shoves the zipper down one-handed, supporting his weight on his other hand and pulling my hair in the process. “We have all night, sugar. If you’re good after this, maybe I’ll be gentle next time.”

I sob as he pushes his pants and underwear over his hips freeing his cock to jab at my stomach.

“It’s okay to cry.” He wedges my knees apart, then shoves them up, and panic blazes through my veins. My vision narrows to a black-rimmed tunnel. I wedge my hands between us and shove him as hard as I can.

I’m not very strong, but he’s not expecting resistance. He loses his balance and rolls onto the floor. His shoulder smashes into the coffee table and his glass falls off the edge, drenching him.

He yelps, shocked by the sudden cold, and I scramble over the couch and back away from it. “You’re going to pay for that,” he spits as he pushes himself to his feet. He deliberately sets his glass back on the table. Then he rounds the end of the couch toward me, fists clenched. Face flaming.

“Please. I’m sorry.” I’m not even sure if he can hear me. “Please don’t…”

He lurches for me and I scream as I scramble backward. Then I turn and run for the door, praying that it’s unlocked. But the knob won’t even budge in my grasp. So I scream again and pound on the door. “Help me! Please!” I know begging the guards for help is pointless. But I have nowhere left to go and nothing left to try.

I smell the biting scent of alcohol a second before the man grabs my shoulder. He spins me around and throws me against the door, then grabs a handful of my hair and smashes my skull into the wood.

My vision fades to a pinpoint of light. My knees buckle beneath me. For a second, I’m aware of nothing but tearing pain in my scalp, then I feel carpet scratch my bare hip. The bathroom flies by on my right.

He’s dragging me away from the door by my hair.

I scramble to get my feet beneath me while I grab his arm, trying to ease the pressure on my scalp. But the best I can do is clutch his wrist so that he’s dragging me by my arms rather than my hair.

When we get to the couch, he jerks me from the floor by both arms and throws me onto the cushion. “If you move,” he growls as he shoves his pants to the floor. “I will break your jaw. Which is going to make it pretty damn hard for you to suck my cock.”

I cower into the corner of the couch, rubbing my burning scalp, trying to lose myself in the plush cushions while he takes his time unbuttoning his drenched shirt. Watching me. This is a test he seems to want me to fail. But I’m too scared to move.

Rather than watch him undress, I look at the huge screen to his right. Scott is gone. Now the camera is focused on another man, who glares into the lights. He’s massively muscled but wearing only a snug pair of black boxer shorts. His neck and chin are shaded with a day’s dark beard scruff, and his heavily lashed eyes are the most vibrant shade of blue I’ve ever seen. He clenches his jaw, refusing to speak, even though a guard in the frame appears to be asking him questions.

A white button-up shirt falls through my field of vision, momentarily obscuring the screen, and I tense, expecting the client’s weight to drop on top of me. Instead, he rounds the couch again, and a moment later I hear the clink of ice into a fresh glass.

“I’m not going to offer you any this time,” Hansen snaps.

I tune him out, my gaze glued to the screen as I try to pretend I’m not here. That this horrible room and the cruel man behind me don’t even exist.

On screen, the camera widens for a broader shot of the blue-eyed man, which is when I see that his hands are bound in front of him with thin wire I know from experience to be capable of carrying an electrical current. The guard steps into the frame again, blocking most of the muscular man from view, and when he steps back, the binding is gone. But I can tell from the way the blue-eyed man looks around, his gaze snapping from one point to the next, that there are several guns aimed at him off camera.

Then I see his hands. Tattooed on the fleshy part of his right palm is a seven-digit number. Just like mine.

He’s a prisoner.

When the view changes back to Scott, locked and loaded in his high-tech gear, I finally understand. He’s not here to hunt turkeys and rabbits.

He’s here to hunt inmates. One particular blue-eyed inmate, it seems.

Before I can truly process that fact, his brother rounds the end of the couch again, holding a fresh glass of alcohol. “Are you ready to play nice?” He drains half of the glass, then he sets it on the edge of the coffee table, next to the empty one.

I nod. My new plan is to lie still, squeeze my eyes shut, and pray that morning comes without any broken bones.

He uses one knee to wedge my legs open, and tears slide down my face as he settles over me, then crawls down my body. His tongue licks my left nipple, and I bite my lip—until his teeth sink into my breast.

I scream, and he bites harder. Then he lets me go, and on the lower edge of my vision, I see blood well from the wound. He licks it off, then slides his hand between us and positions himself between my legs.

I squeeze my eyes shut tight and reach to the left, grasping for the coffee table. For something to clutch.

My hand closes around the empty glass instead.

I swing with no intent. No forethought. I’m striking out blindly. Mindlessly. I am utterly shocked when the glass actually makes contact with a sickening thud.

For a moment, Hansen stares down at me, stunned. His eyes look unfocused. Then he blinks, and I can see reality rush back in. He stands, and when he touches his temple, his fingers come away bloody. The glass falls from my hand and thumps onto the carpet, but before I can process that, he grabs me by the throat with his bloody hand and hauls me up. Squeezing.

Pain shoots through my neck. Pressure builds in my head. I try to claw at his hand, but something bites into my fingers and as my vision starts to go dark, I realize I’m still holding a hunk from the broken glass. I swing again, aiming for his head. I feel the glass sink in, but before I can see how much damage I’ve done, the world goes dark…

* * *

I wake up on the floor, lying on my right side. The bite on my breast throbs. My cheek is wet and sticky. I push myself upright, and the black carpet beneath my palm feels spongy. My hand comes away covered in blood.

Some of it’s mine; the cut on my finger still burns. But the rest of it… I spin on the carpet, looking for the source.

Hansen lies an arm’s length away, bleeding from a gash in his neck. The blood beneath my hand is still warm, but the flow from his wound is little more than a trickle, and his eyes are staring at nothing.

He’s dead.

He holds the hunk of glass in his left hand. If he’d left it in and called for help, he might have lived.

I scramble away from the body, breathing heavily as I try to absorb what’s just happened.

I killed him. It was an accident, but I don’t regret it, and I won’t be forgiven.

Panic tries to close my throat.

No. Think! I have to get out of here, and I can’t do that naked and covered in blood.

I use the coffee table to push myself to my feet, then I run for the bathroom. I wet a rag in the sink and scrub the blood from my hands, face, and neck, then I search the suite for something to wear. Other than the robe on the back of the bathroom door and the dead man’s clothes, there is nothing.

Desperate, I put on his whiskey-scented shirt—it hangs halfway down my thighs—and as I’m buttoning it, movement on the screen catches my attention.

Scott and the inmate with the blue eyes stand on the screen together, facing each other. A man in a guard’s uniform stands between them, holding a rifle across his chest, staring at the camera. His eyes gleam with excitement, and he’s saying something, but the sound is still muted. Then he raises his hand, fingers spread, and begins to count, dropping one finger with every number.

The camera zooms in on Scott Hansen, the hunter, and he’s practically salivating. Then the view switches to the blue-eyed man briefly—he’s tense and ready for something—before focusing on the guard again. The guard drops his final finger. Then the camera angle changes, and suddenly I’m watching the blue-eyed man race across the broad, flat lawn toward the gate into the forest, wearing nothing but those snug shorts and a strange, thin pair of shoes.

As he disappears through the open gate into the woods, a ten-minute countdown appears in the lower left corner of the screen, as the camera pans around to show an impatient-looking Scott.

The inmate gets a ten-minute head start.

Someone knocks on the door, and I jump, then slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. “Mr. Hansen? I have your room service order.”

Panic paralyzes me. I stare at the door, willing the waiter to go away.

“Mr. Hansen?” He knocks again. “Sir, I’m sorry, but if you don’t answer, I’ll have to open the door. I assure you, however, that I’ve seen everything there is to see around here.” He goes silent again, and I’m opening my mouth, ready to try an impersonation of the client’s voice, when the knob turns.

The door swings open, revealing a well-groomed waiter in a black suit. His right palm is tattooed with a seven-digit number. Next to him stands a cart holding a dome-covered tray and a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice. With one glass.

The waiter’s focus narrows on me. Then it drops to the floor, where the body lies at my feet. “Um…guys?” he says. “We have a problem.”

Two guards push the waiter and his cart aside and look through the doorway. They raise their rifles, both aimed at my head, and my heart jumps into my throat as the one on the left starts shouting.

“Code red! Code red! You so much as breathe, bitch, and we’ll blow your head clean off!”