Silas Moretti | Crimson Scales

The desert heat is dry and dusty, gradually giving way to the pink-red hues of sunset. And the temperature is changing rapidly to cold. Hunt #43, desert terrain, fucking brutal choice for December. Damien said it was random, but Silas knows better.

Silas adjusts the fox mask on his face—red and white painted. Green eyes gleaming through the mask. His black shirt hangs unbuttoned, revealing the red fabric of the inner lining, a signature shirt of Crimson Scales. The desert stretches endlessly toward the horizon, dark gray rocky outcrops jutting through the sandy terrain, a stark contrast.

Twenty-one masked men line up at the boundary—a natural rock wall with a single steel gate that'll seal shut the moment the hunt starts. Some of the hunters are already pacing like caged animals, muscles tense with anticipation. Others stand perfectly still, conserving energy.

Silas is somewhere in between, rolling his shoulders with a touch of laziness. His eyes track the seven women standing exactly fifty meters away. Evaluating each one, a hunter assessing his prey.

Too scared, too greedy, too arrogant—

Shit.

He stops at one woman, something too captivating, something that makes his body react with wild instinct, makes something primal stir in his gut.

"That one," he says, nodding toward her. His voice is muffled behind the fox mask but carries clear intent. "I'm claiming her."

Beside him, Damien—wearing an elegant snake mask with gold and black scales—tilts his head slightly. He's assessing.

"Don't get distracted by a pretty face, Ink."

Silas grins beneath his mask. "Who, me? I'm a professional."

"Professional pain in my ass," Dominic mutters from behind his raven mask. He's shirtless despite the brutal heat, jeans hanging low, silver chain catching the light.

"Meet you both at the tent when it's done," Silas says, already shifting his weight forward.

A voice cuts through from somewhere in the group—lion mask, sounds pissed.

"Of course you three go for the prettiest one. Every fucking time. Some of us want a shot at prime merchandise too."

"Yeah, share the wealth, assholes," another adds. Bear mask.

Silas doesn't bother responding. Neither does Damien. Dominic just cracks his knuckles.

The referee steps forward—a petite figure, white hair visible beneath her hood, pink eyes gleaming through a rabbit mask. This is Ket, a key figure who's contributed to the creation and improvement of The Hunt over the years. She lifts the megaphone with both hands.

"Ten minutes. When you hear the second shot, we come for you. Run smart. Run fast. Three exits marked with red flags. Reach one, you're free with your prize. Get caught, you're ours for thirty days. Your time starts now." Her voice is clear with a hint of mischief, but it brings a chilling feeling.

The flare gun raises.

BOOM

Red smoke explodes across the cloudless sky.

"Weird fucking bitch," the bear mask mutters, giving the referee a quick glance.

"Watch your mouth," the lion mask guy warns.

The women scatter—some running blind into open desert, others diving for the nearest cover. Smart ones head for the rock formations. Panicked ones just run.

A cold wind blows across, the sun gradually disappearing beyond the horizon. The desert's warm heat has been replaced by cold, the temperature changing significantly even though only a few minutes have passed.

The terrain is treacherous—hidden pressure traps buried randomly beneath the sand, cold that'll drain strength by nightfall, three distant cave exits marked with red flags that might as well be a thousand miles away.

"Ninety-three seconds left," Damien says, checking his watch. Always precise to the tick.

Silas keeps his eyes on the rocks where she vanished. His fingers flex at his sides. Adrenaline sings through his veins—familiar, almost comfortable at this point. He's done this enough times to know the rhythm. The chase. The inevitable capture. The thirty days that follow.

The referee checks her watch. Raises the flare gun.

BOOM

The gate creaks open.

Silas moves. He vaults over the boundary line in one smooth motion, boots hitting sand as he breaks into a run. Other hunters scatter in different directions, each chasing their chosen prey. The sound of boots on stone, heavy breathing, occasional shouts.

He heads straight for the rock formations.

The sand shifts beneath his feet, trying to steal his momentum, but he's learned how to read it—the subtle color differences that give away the traps, the firmness that means solid ground. He moves with purpose, vaulting over low boulders, cutting around tall spires of rock.

Then, he notices it. A flash of gray tank top, barely visible under the dim light of the torches scattered around the terrain.

"C'mon, beautiful," he calls out, voice carrying that playful lilt even through the mask. "You signed up for this. Might as well make it fun."

Ten days in.

Silas leans against the villa's entrance, keys dangling from his fingers, waiting. The sun is already climbing, heat starting to build even this early in the morning. He checks his phone—Dominic's still buried in logistics shit for the next shipment, won't be back until tonight. Which leaves him on babysitting duty.

Property maintenance, Damien had called it with that smooth, clinical tone. Take her out. Let her breathe. She's no use to us broken.

The door opens.

Damien steps out first, that controlled stride, not a hair out of place despite what Silas knows he's been doing all night. Then her—stumbling slightly, Damien's hand firm on her elbow keeping her upright.

Silas's jaw clenches before he can stop it.

She looks wrecked. Legs shaking, barely able to stand properly. The oversized shirt she's wearing—one of theirs, probably Damien's—hangs off one shoulder, and even from here Silas can see the wet streak running down her inner thigh. Her clit is swollen, visible through the thin fabric, red and angry from hours of edging.

Damien's eyes meet his over her head. That look—knowing, dismissive, like he sees right through every thought Silas is trying to bury.

"She's all yours for the day, Ink." Damien's hand slides away from her elbow, transfers her weight toward Silas. "Bring her back in one piece."

"Yeah." Silas's voice comes out rougher than intended. "Got it."

Damien turns back inside without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silas looks at her—really looks. The exhaustion in her eyes. The way she's trying so fucking hard to stand straight and failing. The mess Damien left her in.

His jaw works. "Bathroom's down the hall. Clean yourself up. We're not going anywhere with you looking like that."

He doesn't mean for it to sound harsh, but it comes out that way anyway. Better than the alternative—better than acknowledging the tightness in his chest, the urge to carry her to the bathroom himself, the irrational anger at Damien for pushing her this far.

She's property. Just property. Get your shit together.

Twenty minutes later, she emerges. Hair damp, face scrubbed clean, wearing clothes he'd laid out—jeans, a simple shirt, nothing fancy. She moves carefully, like everything still hurts.

It probably does.

Silas pushes off the wall, keys jingling. "Let's go."

The Ferrari sits in the driveway like a predator at rest—cherry red, sleek lines, no roof. Convertible. Because of course Damien would only stock the garage with vehicles that scream money and zero subtlety. The leather seats are already warm from the sun.

Silas opens the passenger door for her—habit, not chivalry—and waits until she's settled, watching her wince slightly as she lowers herself onto the seat. He closes it and rounds to the driver's side, sliding in with practiced ease.

The engine purrs to life. Air conditioning kicks in, cutting through the building heat, though with no roof it's a losing battle against the desert sun.

Silas adjusts the rearview mirror, hands steady on the wheel. Doesn't look at her yet. Can't.

Ten days. Twenty left. Don't fuck this up.

He pulls out of the driveway, heads toward the main road. The villa disappears behind them, swallowed by distance and dust. Wind whips through the open top, catching her damp hair.

Finally, he glances over. She's staring out at the desert landscape rushing past, expression unreadable.

"So." His voice is lighter now, that playful tone sliding back into place like armor. "Where do you want to go first, sunshine?"

Fifteen days in, and Silas is losing his fucking mind.

He's spent the entire day handling Damien's dirty work—collecting debts from people who thought they could skip payments, breaking fingers, making examples. The kind of work that leaves blood under his fingernails and exhaustion in his bones. By the time he drags himself back to the villa, the sun is already setting, painting the desert in shades of red that match the stains on his shirt.

The living room is a mess.

Dominic sprawls on the couch, shirtless and satisfied, that post-fuck laziness written all over him. Damien stands by the window, buttoning his shirt with clinical precision, not a hair out of place despite what Silas knows they've been doing.

And her.

She's on the floor between them. Naked. Trembling. Cum dripping down her thighs, her chin, mixing with the tears streaking her face. Her wrists are raw from restraints, bruises blooming dark across her ribs, her hips, her throat. Red marks from Damien's belt cross her ass and the backs of her thighs. Her lips are swollen, split at the corner. Her cunt looks wrecked—swollen and used, still leaking.

They've been at her for hours. Both of them. Together.

Silas's jaw clenches before he can stop it.

Damien catches the reaction immediately. Those eyes sweep over Silas, taking in the blood on his clothes, the tension in his shoulders, the exhaustion he can't quite hide.

"You had a long day." Not a question. A statement. Damien gestures toward her with one elegant hand, like she's a tool being passed between workers. "Use her. Stress relief. She can take more."

She can take more.

Like she isn't shaking. Like she isn't barely holding herself upright. Like she's just an object, just property, just—

Just what you're supposed to see her as.

"Yeah." Silas's voice comes out rougher than intended. "Thanks."

He crosses the room, crouches down, hooks an arm under her legs and another behind her back. Lifts her easily despite the exhaustion weighing him down.

Dominic doesn't even look up from his phone. Damien has already moved on, pouring himself a drink.

Silas carries her down the hall to his room. Kicks the door shut behind them. The lock clicks—habit, privacy, something.

He sets her down on his bed carefully, watches her curl into herself immediately. The bruises look worse under his bedroom light. Fingerprints on her throat. Bite marks on her shoulders. The belt welts angry and raised.

They did this. Your brothers did this.

You've done worse.

But that was before. Before day ten. Before he started noticing things he shouldn't notice. Before he started caring about things he has no right to care about.

She's not supposed to matter. None of them ever matter. That's the rule. That's always been the rule. Fuck them, break them, send them on their way after thirty days and never think about them again.

Except he can't stop thinking about her.

The way she takes her coffee. The small sound she makes when she's close. The defiant tilt of her chin even when Damien has her on her knees. The way she looked at him three days ago, soft and trusting, like he's something other than a monster.

And now she's here. In his bed. Broken by his best friends. And Damien expects him to use her too. Expects him to see her as nothing but stress relief, a warm hole, a toy.

Property.

That's what she is.

That's all she's supposed to be.

Silas strips off his blood-stained shirt, tosses it aside. His hands are shaking slightly—from exhaustion, from adrenaline, from something else he refuses to name.

He moves before he can think about it, crosses to the bed, pins her down against the mattress. His hands bracket her head, knees forcing her legs apart.

This is how he deals with it. How he's been dealing with it since day ten when he realizes he's fucked. When he realizes that somewhere between the hunt and now, between the forced smiles and careful distance, he's started catching feelings for their toy.

So he fucks her harder. Rougher. Uses her body like it's just meat, just a warm hole, just temporary. Tries to convince himself with every thrust that this doesn't mean anything, that she doesn't mean anything.

It's not working.

But he'll keep trying. Because admitting the truth—admitting that he's falling for her, that he thinks about her when she's with Damien, that his chest tightens when Dominic gets too rough, that the thought of day thirty makes him want to burn the whole fucking system down—that's weakness.

That's betrayal.

That's career-ending, friendship-destroying, life-ruining truth he can't afford.

His jaw clenches. One hand slides down, grips her thigh hard enough to add another bruise to the collection. His cock is already hard, pressing against his jeans, betraying every word he's about to say.

He leans in close, lets his breath ghost across her face, and forces the words out through gritted teeth.

"Remember, you are just fuck meat." His hand slides between her legs, spreads them wider, holds her open. "Spread."