Page 15 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)

XAVIER

T he afternoon light filters through my office windows as I lean back in my leather chair, watching the controlled chaos unfold below.

Staff members dart between rooms, adjusting lighting and checking equipment.

The air practically vibrates with anticipation—tonight marks another Hunt—another demonstration of power.

My attention keeps drifting to my screen on my desk.

Specifically, to the one showing Mira Sullivan’s apartment building.

I’ve been tracking her communications for days now, a simple matter when you own the kind of surveillance equipment Phoenix develops. Every text, every call, every digital footprint—all of it flows through my systems before reaching her devices.

I pull up her text thread with Cora Pike. The mayor’s daughter has been sending increasingly excited messages about dress choices and strategy. Their friendship fascinates me—two women from completely different worlds, bound by loyalty that neither seems to question.

Whatever we wear, we need to be able to move in it.

Smart girl. She understands this isn’t some social event, even if she doesn’t grasp the full scope of what she’s walked into.

The security camera I installed in her apartment shows me her routine—she’s been frantically researching the Hunt and me, but coming up blank. But I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she glances around nervously as if she knows I’m watching.

My phone buzzes with a report from Vane. All participants confirmed. Equipment tested. The maze stands ready, its walls gleaming under the afternoon sun filtering through Purgatory’s skylights.

Returning my attention to my surveillance camera in her apartment, I notice there’s a sharpness to her focus that wasn’t there before. She’s preparing for the biggest story of her career while willingly entering my web.

I find myself studying her face on the monitor, the determined set of her jaw, the way she tucks that strand of hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating. Most prey come to the Hunt driven by money, status, or a simple thrill-seeking desire.

Mira Sullivan comes hunting for the truth.

That makes her infinitely more dangerous than the others. And infinitely more intriguing.

My fingers drum against the desk as I consider the variables. Someone warned her—someone with resources and technical knowledge. They want her to abandon this investigation, to walk away from whatever story she thinks she’ll find here.

They want her to run, but she won’t. Not Mira Sullivan. She’ll walk into that maze tonight with her chin raised and her fighter’s instincts blazing, ready to expose whatever secrets she thinks she’ll find.

The thought sends a dark thrill through me, followed immediately by an emotion. One that feels uncomfortably like concern.

I’ve orchestrated dozens of Hunts. Watched potential partners navigate the challenges I’ve designed, testing their limits, their desires, and their willingness to submit.

It’s always been about control—finding those who understand power dynamics, who crave the structured release of surrendering to someone stronger.

But with Mira, the rules feel different. She’s not here seeking submission or playing games of dominance. She’s here hunting me as much as I’m hunting her.

The thought of her navigating those maze walls, facing challenges designed to strip away pretense and reveal core desires... should excite me. It does excite me. But underneath that anticipation lies a compulsion I refuse to accept.

“Lost in thought about your journalist?”

Knox’s voice cuts through my brooding as he strides into my office without knocking. Vane follows, carrying a tablet that likely contains final security protocols for tonight.

“She’s hardly little,” I reply, not looking away from the monitor showing Mira curled up on her sofa with a book.

“No, she’s definitely not.” Knox settles into one of my chairs with that lazy grace he’s perfected. “Saw her the other night at the bar. Curves in all the right places, an attitude that could cut glass. I can see the appeal.”

A cold sensation slides down my spine. “Stay away from her.”

“Possessive already?” Knox’s grin widens. “She hasn’t even entered the maze yet.”

Vane glances between us. “The journalist presents complications regardless of personal attachment. Her investigation could expose us.”

“Which is why she’ll be claimed tonight,” I say. “Problem solved.”

Knox leans forward, amusement dancing in his blue eyes. “Unless she solves you first. What if your little truth-seeker finds more than she bargained for?”

The possibility has occurred to me. More than once. The way Mira looks at me sometimes, like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle.

“She signed the NDA,” I remind them. “Whatever she finds, she can’t publish.”

“But she can run,” Vane points out. “Participants who don’t complete the Hunt retain their freedom.”

The word hangs between us like a challenge. Run. As if Mira Sullivan would ever run from anything, especially when she’s convinced she’s on the verge of the biggest story of her career.

“She won’t run.” I close the laptop. “She’s too invested in whatever truth she thinks she’s going to uncover.”

“And if she uncovers more than you planned?” Knox’s voice carries that edge he gets when he’s pushing boundaries. “What if she finds information that changes the game entirely?”

I meet his gaze. “Then I adapt.”

Vane sets his tablet on my desk, the screen displaying security feeds from throughout Purgatory. Staff members move through corridors, making final preparations. In a few hours, the participants will arrive, masks in place, identities temporarily surrendered to the night’s possibilities.

“The other participants are standard,” Vane reports, his tone clinical. “Wealth seekers, thrill chasers, a few genuinely curious about power dynamics. None present strategic concerns.”

“Except for the mayor’s daughter.” Knox sprawls deeper into his chair, completely at ease despite the tension crackling through the room. “Cora Pike could be problematic if anything happens to daddy’s little girl.”

Cora Pike sends another ripple of complication through an already complex situation. She signed the NDA rashly, driven by loyalty to her friend rather than a clear understanding of what she was agreeing to. Unlike Mira, who walked into this with her eyes wide open, Cora stumbled in blindly.

“Pike won’t be an issue,” I say, though the words taste uncertain. “She’s here as support for Sullivan, nothing more. ”

“Unless she becomes leverage.” Vane’s observation cuts through my confidence like a blade. “Mira cares about her friend. Emotional attachments create vulnerabilities.”

He’s right, and I hate that he’s right. Mira’s fierce protectiveness over Cora could become a weapon turned against her, a pressure point I could exploit if necessary.

The realization sits heavy in my chest, uncomfortable in ways I don’t want to examine.

“This is still just another Hunt,” I tell them, though the words sound hollow even to me. “The participants enter, challenges are completed, and suitable matches are identified. Nothing more complex than that.”

Knox laughs, the sound sharp and knowing. “Keep telling yourself that, brother. But we both know this stopped being just another Hunt the moment you decided to invite a journalist who’s been investigating us.”

Knox’s words linger in the air long after my brothers leave, their truth cutting deeper than I care to admit. I remain seated, staring at the closed laptop that had shown me Mira’s apartment, her life, her carefully constructed normalcy that’s about to be shattered.

I rise and make my way through corridors I’ve walked countless times. In these rooms, power has been negotiated and surrendered, where masks have fallen away to reveal the truth beneath. Tonight feels different, charged with an energy that has nothing to do with the usual excitement of a Hunt.

The elevator carries me down to the maze level, its doors opening to reveal the labyrinth I’ve designed and refined over the years. Geometric walls stretch before me, creating pathways that lead deeper into shadow and possibility.

But as I step to the edge of the maze’s entrance, looking out at the controlled chaos of final preparations. The anticipation is there, the thrill of orchestrating encounters designed to strip away pretense.

Yet underneath that familiar excitement runs a new sensation entirely.

This isn’t another Hunt—not with Mira Sullivan about to walk these passages.

The thought of her navigating these walls, facing obstacles that will test not just her physical limits but her psychological boundaries, sends heat spiraling through me.

She’ll move through this maze seeking truth, unaware that what she finds might transform her more than any story she writes ever could.

I watch technicians adjust camera angles, ensuring perfect coverage of every corner and every moment of revelation. In a few hours, participants will arrive masked and curious, ready to discover what they’re truly made of.

But Mira... Mira will enter the Hunt in search of truth. And in doing so, she’ll become prey to forces she doesn’t yet understand.

The irony isn’t lost on me. The woman investigating my secrets is about to become my greatest secret of all.