With my mask firmly in place, I shrug. “I already completed my task. I’m a Hound. I figured why bother wasting my time in the jungle when I could come and get pissed in celebration.”

My father laughs as if I’m such a huge joy of a son. “That’s my boy!” he exclaims. “I knew you had it in you to become a Hound. Some of the others said you were weak, but I knew you could do it.” His eyes crinkle. “I’m so proud of you, my boy. Welcome to the Hound Society!”

I don’t respond, not because I never wanted to be a Hound but because my father expects a stoic and aloof son. That’s what he’s raised me to be, what he’s beaten me to be, and despite the many scandals involving models and drugs, I’ve always been meant to be just like him.

A businessman. A mogul. A Hound.

“We should have a glass of whiskey to celebrate,” he continues as if I’m not counting down seconds in my mind and realizing just how much danger the others are in the longer we’re here. To my left, out of the corner of my eyes, I can see a familiar blonde head dancing with Jiro, listening, waiting to help if needed, but of the five of us, I’m the safest here.

Though the game isn’t done, so technically, I still fall under fair game for the other hunting Hounds. None of them are here though. They’re on the island hunting rabbits while we slip right beneath their noses.

Billie and Jiro swing closer, her hair swirling out in a way that draws my father’s eyes.

“Yes!” I say too quickly, capturing his attention again. “A whiskey sounds great. I could certainly use one.”

My father grins and claps me on the shoulder, a real man’s man. Any minute now, he’ll pull out his cigars and offer me one. He keeps telling me how proud he is of his murdering son, how much he loves what I’ve become. Even after all my fighting, even after trying so hard not to be the same as my father, in the end, that’s all I am.

My eyes trace around the room and pick out Creed and Achilles moving stealthily, keeping an eye on my interaction. Because they don’t trust me? Or in case I get in trouble?

Achilles’ eyes are hard, untrusting, but it looks like it’s directed at my father rather than me. For some reason, that makes me feel better. After everything we’ve been through, I’d hate to think they still worry I’ll betray them.

“Shall we?” I ask my father, gesturing toward the bar.

“Of course, my boy! Of course! We’ll get the finest whiskey they have available. Only the best for my son, the Hound.”