Page 4 of Cursed

“What the hell?” I whisper, scanning the attached non-disclosure agreement.

I immediately open a private browser window and search “Hollow’s Hunt.” Almost nothing comes up—just vague references on obscure forums, whispers about an elite event for the powerful. My searches hit dead ends, finding only rumors and speculation. Whoever runs this keeps their digital footprint minimal—impressive in today’s world.

Returning to the documents, I read the NDA more carefully. The language is explicit and chilling: “Participant acknowledges that by signing below, they willingly surrender their right to withhold consent during the seventy-two-hour duration of the Hunt, and potentially for one year following, should they be claimed...”

My first instinct is to tear the entire thing apart. What sane woman would agree to this? I should report it to someone—though who exactly, I’m not sure.

And yet...

My mind drifts to Melvin. Two years of missionary position with the lights off. Two years of him finishing with a grunt while I lay there wondering if this was really what everyone made such a fuss about. Since our breakup three years ago, I’ve avoided relationships entirely, instead burying myself in work. I’ve had the occasional hook-ups that were just as disappointing.

I fold the papers, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my body. The thought of being pursued, wanted so intensely that someone would hunt me through a maze... I press my thighs together under my desk, shocked at my body’s visceral reaction and knowing that those feelings are likely rooted in what happened to me in high school.

This is insanity. I slip the documents back into the envelope, but instead of throwing it away, I tuck it into my laptop bag.

Just to analyze later, I tell myself. Just to satisfy my curiosity.

3

LANDON

Four days.

Four goddamn days of silence.

I check my watch for the third time in ten minutes, drumming my fingers against the polished mahogany of the bar at Purgatory. The ice in my whiskey has long since melted, diluting the expensive bourbon. I haven’t taken a sip in over an hour.

“Another, Mr. Blackwood?” The bartender hovers nearby, intimidated by my growing agitation.

I shake my head once, dismissing him.

My phone remains dark—no notification from security about Sadie arriving. The club is nearly empty at this early hour, which is why I chose this time. Less distraction, clearer sight lines to the entrance.

The deadline for Hunt acceptances is at midnight. With each passing hour, her lack of response has uncertainty twisting in my chest.

I don’t do uncertainty.

Since tracking her to her apartment two weeks ago, I’ve maintained my distance, giving her space to make her decision. She is wholly unaware of me and my existence. The challengeof the Hunt requires willing prey. Coercion defeats the purpose, but my patience has its limits.

I’ve reviewed her file seventeen times since sending the invitation. MIT-educated cybersecurity expert. Three patents for encryption algorithms before age twenty-five. A mind that processes information in patterns and codes—structured, methodical, brilliant.

Unlike the vapid socialites my brothers typically choose, Sadie is more valuable: an intellectual equal who might comprehend the intricate game of the areas I’ve designed within the Hunt.

I’m contemplating ordering another drink when a cloud of sickly-sweet perfume invades my space. A woman slides onto the stool beside me, her red hair meticulously styled, dress cut low enough to broadcast desperation.

“You look lonely,” she purrs. “I could fix that.”

Her fingers reach for my arm. I move it before she makes contact.

“I’m not interested.” My voice is flat, emotionless. “I’m waiting for someone.”

Her painted lips form a pout. “I could be more fun than whoever?—”

“You couldn’t.” I cut her off, my gaze never meeting hers. “Move along.”

She huffs, muttering about me being an asshole, then clicks away on ridiculous heels. The vultures are circling early tonight. The Blackwood reputation draws them to Purgatory like moths to a flame, each hoping to catch a Blackwood’s attention.

I signal the bartender for another scotch. He delivers it promptly, no ice this time. Smart man.