Keane
“What kind?”
Before she could speak, the blond, Teague, stood up next to Keane. Muscles rippled and flexed beneath his white tee shirt, and it took me a moment to focus again on the words. “The game is called The Hunt,” he explained, drawing what looked like a half-empty bottle of wine from beneath his chair. He held it up and popped the cork, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever the wine had to do with it, I could do it easily.
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