Page 15 of Doomed (Blackwood Brothers #2)

BIANCA

I stare at my ceiling, replaying last night’s disaster at Purgatory. The memory makes me cringe.

What the hell was I thinking?

The last time I saw Knox, he was breaking someone’s fingers, and suddenly, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

It’s pathetic. But then, who the hell am I kidding?

I couldn’t get my mind off him even before that.

Michelle helped me pick the perfect dress, practice flirtatious smiles in the mirror.

And then I strategically positioned myself in Knox’s line of sight.

Hours spent dancing with men I had zero interest in, laughing too loudly at their ridiculous jokes, all while stealing glances at Knox to see if he was watching.

And for what?

He never even flinched. Not once.

Knox Blackwood, who can’t seem to leave me alone any other time, who appears at my gallery and disrupts my painting sessions, who constantly invades my personal space, chose last night to finally respect my boundaries. Asshole.

I groan and pull the pillow over my face. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

A knock at my bedroom door interrupts my self-flagellation.

“Bianca? You awake?” Michelle’s voice filters through the wood.

“Unfortunately,” I mutter, then louder, “Come in.”

Michelle pokes her head in, her expression curious. “Mail came for you.” She steps into my room holding a sleek black envelope between her fingers. The edges are trimmed in blood red, making it look ominous against her pale hand.

I sit up, my embarrassment momentarily forgotten. “What is that?”

“No idea. Some fancy courier delivered it. Like, actual white gloves and everything.” She hands it to me. “Said it was for Ms. Bianca Hayes.”

The envelope is heavy, made of expensive cardstock. No return address, just my name written in elegant silver script across the front. I turn it over in my hands, oddly hesitant to open it. With my luck, I’ll get a paper cut and bleed to death.

“Maybe it’s an invitation to some exclusive gallery event?” I suggest. “Elliot mentioned a private showing coming up with some collectors from Europe.”

Michelle perches on the edge of my bed. “Only one way to find out.”

I slide my finger under the seal, curiosity pushing aside my lingering frustrations about Knox. Whatever this is, at least it’s a welcome distraction from my wounded pride.

I break the seal and slide out the contents—several sheets of thick, expensive paper. The first appears to be an invitation, its silver lettering gleaming against the dark background.

“Ms. Bianca Hayes,” I read aloud, “you have been formally invited to participate in this year’s Hollow’s Hunt as honored prey.” I frown, scanning the rest of the text. “What the hell is a ‘Hollow’s Hunt’?”

Behind the invitation is a multi-page document with “NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT” emblazoned across the top, followed by dense legal text.

Michelle gasps beside me, grabbing my arm so hard I wince. “Oh my god, Bianca! Are you serious?” Her eyes widen as she peers at the invitation. “You got invited to the Hollow’s Hunt?”

“You know what this is?” I flip through the legal document, spotting phrases like “waiver of liability” and “binding non-disclosure.”

“Everyone’s heard of it, but nobody actually gets invited!” Michelle’s voice rises with each word. “It’s like the most exclusive event in Ravenwood. People would literally kill for an invitation.”

I stare at her, then back at the invitation. “There’s a mention about being ‘prey’? That doesn’t sound appealing.”

“It’s some kind of elaborate game the elite of Ravenwood play once a year.

Nobody knows exactly what happens because of those NDAs, but rumors say it’s some kind of masquerade game.

” Michelle’s excitement is palpable as she bounces on my bed.

“The richest, most powerful people participate. It’s invitation-only, super-secret. ”

I flip the invitation over, looking for some explanation. “But why would they invite me? I’m not exactly part of Ravenwood’s elite.”

Michelle gives me a look that suggests I’m being deliberately obtuse. “Really? You have to ask?” She points to the signature at the bottom of the invitation. “Knox Blackwood. That’s why.”

Sure enough, Knox’s bold signature slashes across the bottom of the page, alongside Xavier’s.

“I don’t understand,” I murmur, though a part of me does. “What exactly am I being invited to?”

Michelle shrugs, her excitement dimming. “Honestly, I only know what people whisper about. The details are super hush- hush.” She taps the thick stack of legal papers. “That’s why they make everyone sign NDAs. Nobody who’s participated can talk about it without binding legal consequences.”

I flip through the documents again, my stomach tightening with each page. Waivers releasing the hosts from liability for “physical exertion,” “psychological distress,” and “intimate encounters.” What kind of event requires these kinds of releases?

“This sounds intense,” I mutter, placing the papers on my nightstand. “I don’t know if I should?—”

“You have to go!” Michelle interrupts, her eyes wide. “Do you understand how exclusive this is? People would kill for this invitation.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” I reply dryly.

“Why would Knox invite me to an event like this? An event that, if I read this correctly, requires me to release them from any legal liability. At the same time, they can essentially do anything to me they choose, even if I change my mind. It doesn’t sound like my kind of event. We barely know each other.”

Michelle gives me an incredulous look. “Oh, please. The man is obsessed with you. He can’t stay away.”

“He managed fine last night,” I remind her.

“Maybe this is why.” She waves the invitation between us. “Maybe he was busy planning to invite you.”

I chew my bottom lip, contemplating the heavy black envelope and its disturbing contents. Part of me wants to tear it up and pretend I never received it. But another part—the part that tingles whenever Knox stands too close—is unbearably curious.

“The only people who know what really happens at the Hunt are the ones who’ve participated,” Michelle says, standing up. “And they can’t talk because of those.” She points to the NDAs.

“So what am I supposed to do? Sign up for an event I know nothing about?”

Michelle heads to my door, pausing with her hand on the knob.

“If you want answers, there’s only one person who can give them to you.

” She gives me a significant look. “You need to find Knox Blackwood and ask him directly. Tell him you are considering attending, but that you have reservations, and see if he puts your mind at ease. What’s the worst thing that can happen?

He refuses to tell you. If he does, then you know where you stand.

I can’t believe he’s been so interested in you only to leave you terrified and hating him. ”

I stare down at his signature on the invitation. She’s right. If I want to know what I’m being invited into, I need to hear it from the source.

I stare at the invitation in my hands, the silver lettering mocking me as it gleams against the jet black cardstock. Finding Knox is the last thing I want to do. Every interaction with him feels like stepping into quicksand—the more I struggle, the deeper I sink into whatever this is between us.

“I can’t appear at Purgatory demanding answers,” I argue.

Michelle crosses her arms. “Why not? He’s pursuing you. If he wants you at this Hunt thing, he should be willing to explain it.” She taps the NDA. “That’s way too much paperwork to sign without knowing what you’re getting into.”

“I know, I know.” I rub my temples, feeling a headache begin to form. She’s right, and I hate it. “I just...”

“You just what?” Michelle’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Are you worried about seeming too eager after last night? Because trust me, showing up with questions about this—” she jabs a finger at the invitation, “—is completely different than whatever you were trying to accomplish with that dress and those other guys.”

My cheeks heat. “Fine. You’re right.”

“Of course I am.” She yanks my comforter off me. “So get the hell up and go to Purgatory. Find him. Get answers.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. When else?” Michelle heads to my closet and starts flipping through hangers. “Wear an outfit that says ‘I’m here for business, not your bullshit.’“

Forty minutes later, I’m showered and dressed in a fitted black pair of jeans and a crisp white button-down, the invitation and its accompanying paperwork tucked safely in my leather portfolio.

My hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, and I’ve applied just enough makeup to look polished without trying too hard to impress anyone.

I grab a coffee from the café downstairs—liquid courage in the form of an extra-large americano—and call an Uber. As I slide into the backseat, my stomach tightens, dread and anticipation fighting for dominance, only making me feel nauseous in the process.

“Purgatory,” I tell the driver, who raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment.

The ride gives me time to rehearse what I’ll say. I need to be direct. Professional. I need answers before I even consider signing anything with the name Blackwood on it. No matter how much a part of me wants to know what happens at this mysterious Hunt.