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The scene gets wilder the further in we go. What started as suggestive dancing near theentrance has turned into something much more intense at the center. Bodies twist together in various stages of undress, cast in deep crimson by the blood-red lights. A woman bent over a custom bench takes measured strikes from a man with a leather flogger, her face showing pure bliss even through her ornate mask. Nearby, another couple performs for an eager audience, her body arched perfectly as he guides her with subtle movements of rope binding her arms.

I recognize the technique from my photography days—that’s serious suspension bondage that takes real skill. Part of me misses my camera, itching to capture the interplay of light and shadow across their bodies.

“Makes my NYU fetish photography look like child’s play,” I say to Damiano, my attention fixed on the scene. “They’re going all out.”

“Heathens night isn’t about holding back,” Damiano says, close to my ear. “It’s about peeling everything away. Shows what The Hunt really means—pure instinct over social rules.”

I drift my gaze from scene to scene, my photographer’s eye mixing with pure arousal. On a velvet couch, a masked woman straddles a man while another woman kisses her neck. Against a column nearby, a man pins another’s wrists above his head, their bodies pressed together in an unmistakable display of dominance and submission.

“Island bigwigs by day, absolute animals bynight,” I observe, feeling heat spreading under my skin as I watch.

Damiano laughs against my ear. “The masks change everything. Amazing what people do when they think no one knows who they are.”

I lean back against him, my body responding to the charged atmosphere. There’s something about being surrounded by such raw desire, watching proper island residents transform into creatures of pure want.

He tightens his arm around my waist. “Getting to you?” he asks, deeper than before.

“Maybe,” I admit, not bothering to hide how my breathing’s quickened or how I’m pressing back against him—he can feel it all anyway.

His lips brush my ear. “We should keep moving.”

But it’s getting harder to focus on our mission. I keep looking back to the scenes around us. The couple with the flogger has moved on, the woman now writhing as her partner’s hands work between her legs. On stage, performers in elaborate headdresses and nearly nothing else twist around each other in synchronized desire.

I spot Flint behind the bar, his eyes finding us through the crowd. Even from across the room, I can feel the intensity in his gaze as he watches Damiano’s hands on me. My skin flushes hot in response.

“Viktor’s watching,” Damiano says suddenly. “Don’t look now.”

I fight the urge to turn my head. “What’s he doing?”

“Acting like he doesn’t see us while seeing everything.” Damiano slides his hand to my hip, pulling me closer in a move that’s both possessive and protective. “We need to look natural.”

“What counts as ‘natural’ in this madhouse?” I try to keep it light despite the tension coiling inside me.

He flexes his fingers against my hip. “Like we’re here for the same reason as everyone else.”

Our eyes meet and understanding passes between us. We’re supposed to be playing parts—a couple, or whatever we are, simply enjoying the wild atmosphere. But the heat in his eyes suggests this is becoming less of an act by the second.

“Dance with me.” I turn in his arms to face him.

He hesitates. “Briar?—”

“Dance with me,” I repeat, more firmly. “People are watching. We need to blend in.”

His resistance crumbles, and he pulls me into the mass of bodies at the center of the room, where the music hits hardest and the smoke hangs thick. His hands find my hips as I loop my arms around his neck. The beat drives through us, dictating our movements.

I press closer, feeling how tense he is. Around us, the dancing has morphed into something much more intimate. Couples—and sometimes more than couples—move against each other with obvioushunger. I follow their lead, rolling my body against Damiano’s with practiced ease.

He exhales sharply, tension evident in every line of his body, and tightens his hands on my hips, pulling me closer despite himself.

“You know what this is doing to me, right?” he mutters, his eyes darkening.

“That’s kind of the point,” I say, boldly holding his gaze.

Over Damiano’s shoulder, I spot Viktor again, now standing with a clear view of us. Can’t read his expression behind that bone-white mask, but his attention is definitely locked on us.

“He’s watching,” I murmur into Damiano’s ear. “What now?”

Damiano doesn’t hesitate. He backs me against a nearby column, his body shielding mine from the crowd but perfectly positioned for Viktor to see. He cups my face in his hand, tilting it up. “Trust me,” he whispers, and then his mouth is on mine.