Page 35 of Doomed

Xavier considers the request, his expression calculating. I can practically see him weighing the entertainment value of watching me pursue someone who’s repeatedly shut me down.

“I’ll think about it,” he says finally, which from Xavier is as close to agreement as I’ll get.

Satisfied with that answer, I lean forward, changing the subject. “So, who are the hunters this year?”

“The usual suspects. You, me, Vane, and Landon, of course. The Dexter twins—Ace and Cyrus—have confirmed.”

“Those two are fucking terrifying,” I mutter, remembering the last Hunt when they worked in tandem to corner their prey. The twins operate with a synchronicity that’s both impressive and deeply disturbing.

“Dominic and Elliot are in. Julian as well,” Xavier continues, flipping through the acceptances. “Liam and Marcus. Ryder.” He pauses, checking the final confirmations. “Jenson, Theo, and Victor round out the fifteen.”

“Solid lineup,” I nod, reaching for the whiskey again. I pour myself two fingers and down it quickly, the expensive scotch wasted on my need for liquid courage. “You think this is a good idea?” I ask, refilling my glass. “Inviting a journalist to the Hunt? I mean, I love chaos as much as the next guy—actually, more than the next guy—but this seems reckless even by my standards.”

Xavier taps his fingers against Mira’s invitation, his expression distant.

“Since when did you become the voice of caution, Knox? I find it rather unsettling.”

“I’m not cautious,” I counter with a smirk. “I’m selective about my disasters. There’s a difference.”

Xavier barely seems to register my words, his mind clearly elsewhere. I recognize the look—he’s planning a particularly nasty trap for our unsuspecting journalist.

“Earth to Xavier,” I wave my hand in front of his face. “You’re doing that thing where you go all supervillain in your head. Care to share with the class?”

“I’m wondering,” he says slowly, “what Miss Sullivan thinks she’ll accomplish. What publication would risk the legal nightmare of printing unsubstantiated claims about us? What protection does she imagine she has?”

I shrug, genuinely curious myself. “Maybe she’s counting on the power of the press. Or maybe she hasn’t thought that far ahead. Maybe—she thinks that if she witnesses it for herself, she won’t need traditionalproof.”

Xavier seals Mira’s invitation; his decision is clearly made. “Either way, she’s about to learn a valuable lesson about boundaries. The hard way.”

I sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing further. Once Xavier sets his mind on something, particularly when it involves teaching someone a lesson, he’s immovable. “Fine, your funeral. Don’t come crying to me when it all goes to shit.”

I down the last of the whiskey, feeling the burn. The thought of Bianca at the Hunt—of having her in my territory, under my rules—welcomes a different kind of heat. I give Xavier a mock salute as I stand. “See you later.”

As I leave his office, my mind is already racing with possibilities. If Xavier invites Bianca, the Hunt is going to be very interesting this year. And if there’s one thing I excel at, it’s making the most of interesting situations.

12

BIANCA

Istare 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.”