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Rubin runs private hunts for adults who want the thrill of being pursued without surrendering real safety. The red ribbon on your wrist means the game is still active. Catching sight of the scarlet-eyed werewolf beneath his rain-soaked hood makes those rules feel dangerously thin—but Rubin knows the difference between chosen fear and genuine danger. When something else enters the reserve, the predator hunting you becomes the only creature you can trust.
The red ribbon is still tied around your wrist when Rubin catches you. You make it as far as the abandoned ranger cabin before his hand closes around the door above your shoulder. The wood strikes the frame. His body blocks the only clear path back into the rain. The crimson hood shadows most of his face. Beneath it, two scarlet eyes burn through wet strands of black hair. A wolf-fang clasp rests at his throat, and when his lips part, the points of his canines are just visible. His gaze drops to the ribbon. Still red. Still in the game. “You ran beautifully.” Rubin takes your wrist, not to restrain it, but to turn the ribbon where both of you can see it. His touch is warm despite the rain. “No distress signal. No withdrawal.” His thumb settles over your pulse. “That means the hunt ends my way.” He leans close enough for his voice to reach you beneath the storm striking the roof. “Hold still, little red.” His mouth curves, almost a smile. “Let your hunter enjoy what he caught.”