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Chapter 29

Briar

The hot water cascades over my shoulders, washing away the sweat, the smoke, and the lingering scent of whiskey from The Vault. But nothing can wash away the memory of being sandwiched between Damiano and Flint, the feeling of them both inside me, claiming me completely.

The drive home was quiet, Damiano’s hand resting on my thigh, both of us still reeling from what happened. When he dropped me off at the estate, his kiss was tender—so different from the hungry, desperate ones we shared at The Vault.

“Lock the doors,” he reminded me. “And stay inside. The Hunt starts tonight.”

The Hunt. The island’s darkest tradition, about to unfold in the woods surrounding Windward Estate.

I step out of the shower, wrapping a fluffy towel around myself. Through the bathroom window,I can see fog settling over the grounds, thick and ghostly in the moonlight. Perfect Hunt weather, according to island lore.

I pad to my bedroom, towel-drying my hair as I go. The house feels too big, too empty without Mrs. Fletcher’s presence. The silence wraps around me like another layer of fog, broken only by the occasional creak of old wood expanding and contracting.

After moisturizing—my skin always dries out painfully in the island air—I slip into silk pajama shorts and a matching camisole. But as I’m about to climb into bed, something catches my eye through the window.

A red glow.

I move closer to the glass, peering out into the darkness. There it is—a red light bulb glowing softly above the front porch.

My heart skips. I didn’t put that there. Didn’t sign up to be “prey” in tonight’s Hunt.

But I know who did.

Damiano. Or Flint.

A smile tugs at my lips despite myself. So they want to play Hunt games, do they? After what we shared at The Vault, this feels like the natural next step in our twisted island romance.

I hesitate for only a moment before moving to my closet. If they’ve gone to the trouble of setting this up, I might as well play along. At the back of thecloset, I find what I’m looking for—a white nightgown like the one I wore to my party, the night this all began. The night Liam died.

It’s strangely fitting to wear it again, for this dark island ritual. I slip it over my head, the soft fabric floating around my body like mist. The collar dips low, exposing my collarbones, and the hem falls just below my knees—modest compared to the barely-there gowns I saw on some women at The Vault.

According to tradition, I should be barefoot. I kick off my slippers and glance at myself in the full-length mirror. With my hair loose around my shoulders and the white gown against my pale skin, I look like a ghost. Beautiful, but spectral. Perfect for The Hunt.

Do I grab a coat? No, that would ruin the aesthetic. Besides, if everything goes according to plan, I won’t be cold for long. Either Damiano or Flint—or perhaps both—will catch me, and then...

The thought sends heat rushing through me. After tonight at The Vault, I can only imagine what they have planned.

I make my way downstairs, the hardwood floor cool beneath my bare feet. I unlock the heavy front door and step onto the porch. The red light casts everything in a bloody glow, transforming the familiar entrance into something sinister.

The night air hits me immediately, cold and damp with fog. I wrap my arms around myself, already shivering, but determined to play this game.

The protocol, from what I’ve gathered, is to wait. The hunter initiates with a whistle, and then the chase begins. So I wait, standing beneath the red light, exposed and vulnerable in my white gown.

Minutes pass. The fog grows thicker, curling around my ankles like ghost hands trying to pull me into the earth. I’m about to give up, to decide this was some kind of mistake, when a low whistle carries on the wind. Three notes, rising in pitch, then falling—the signal.

My pulse quickens. So they really are doing this.

I peer into the darkness, trying to spot my pursuer. There—a figure at the edge of the property, just where the manicured lawn meets the wild forest. I can’t discern details through the fog, only a silhouette wearing what appears to be the traditional stag mask.

The figure whistles again, the same eerie three notes. Then it starts moving toward me.

Something about the way it moves seems off. Not quite like Damiano’s fluid grace or Flint’s predatory swagger. This gait is different, more mechanical, purposeful.

I take a step back, then another. The figure keeps coming, picking up speed.

This isn’t right. This isn’t them.