Page 16 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)
MIRA
P urgatory’s neon sign bathes the street in red, throwing shadows across our path as Cora and I reach the entrance, ten o’clock sharp. My grip tightens around the porcelain mask, smooth and cold in my hands.
“I still can’t believe you wore that,” I mutter, eyeing Cora’s flowing emerald dress that barely comes to mid-thigh. The fabric catches the light with every step, beautiful and impractical for the Hunt.
“What’s wrong with it?” Cora smooths down the skirt, spinning slightly so the material flares around her legs. “I look amazing.”
“It’s not about looking amazing. It’s about mobility.” I gesture at my own outfit—black leggings that hug my legs like a second skin, a fitted tank top that won’t snag on anything, and running shoes that will actually let me move. “We don’t know what this Hunt involves.”
Cora laughs, the sound bright against the heavy bass thrumming from the club. “You look like you’re going to the gym rather than an exclusive event, Mira. This is supposed to be sophisticated and mysterious, not CrossFit.”
“Sophisticated doesn’t matter if I can’t run.”
The door to Purgatory swings open before we reach it, revealing the familiar chaos of pulsing music and dim lighting.
“You read the entire NDA, right?” I grab Cora’s arm as we step inside, my voice barely audible over the music. “All of it?”
Cora rolls her eyes beneath her mask. “Yes, Mira. I read every word. Fifteen men, free-for-all hunting, sexual encounters if caught.” She shrugs like we’re discussing lunch plans instead of what amounts to legalized assault. “And?”
“And you’re okay with that?” My stomach churns. “They basically have permission to?—”
“To what? Have some fun?” Cora’s laugh is throatier now, different from her usual bright giggle. “God, Mira, when’s the last time you got laid? Really laid, not some boring missionary position with that accountant you dated.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “This isn’t about sex, Cora. This is about control, about power, about?—”
“About finally meeting men who might actually know what they’re doing.
” She puts on her mask, her green eyes sparkling with a dark sense of mischief.
“Look, I’ve been the good girl my whole life.
Princeton graduate, Daddy’s perfect princess, and I’ll be engaged to marry whatever politician he picks out for me.
Maybe I want to know what it feels like to be hunted, desired as more than arm candy for someone else’s ambitions. ”
The words send ice through my veins, but Cora practically purrs it.
“You’re insane.”
“I’m free.” She smooths her dress again. “For seventy-two hours, I get to be someone else entirely. Someone who doesn’t have to worry about appearances or propriety or what the newspapers will say about Mayor Pike’s daughter.”
I stare at her, this woman I thought I knew completely. “What if they catch you?”
“Then they catch me.” Cora’s smile is wicked beneath the porcelain. “And maybe I’ll understand what all the fuss is about.”
“Cora—”
“Relax, Mira. You’re the one with the investigation to worry about. I’m here for the ride.” She winks. “In every sense of the word.”
A bouncer with arms like tree trunks gestures us toward a hallway I’ve never seen before, past the main club floor and through a door marked “Private.” The music fades as we follow him down a narrow corridor lined with black velvet drapes.
“Ladies, you’ll wait here until it’s time.” He opens another door, revealing a plush room with burgundy walls and several velvet couches arranged in a circle.
Four other women already sit inside, each holding a similar porcelain mask and their expressions ranging from terror to anticipation. The door clicks shut behind us with a finality that makes my chest tighten.
“Well,” says a woman with long wavy brown hair, her voice steady despite the slight tremor in her hands. “I guess we’re all in this together now.” She stands, extending her hand. “I’m Bianca. Painter by day, apparently prey by night.”
Her dry humor breaks some of the tension. A stunning redhead with electric-blue eyes laughs, the sound melodic even through her obvious nerves. “Keira. Professional dancer, which I’m hoping gives me some advantage in whatever this Hunt involves.”
“Advantage assumes we want to avoid being caught,” purrs a woman with glossy black hair and amber eyes. She reclines against the velvet cushions like she belongs here, completely at ease. “Lia. I run an art gallery and I’m here by choice.”
The quiet woman in the corner adjusts her thin-rimmed glasses. “Sadie. I work in tech.” Her voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath. “And I’ve done my research on the Blackwoods.”
Cora practically bounces on her toes. “Cora Pike. And before anyone asks, yes, Mayor Pike is my father, and no, he doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Mira Sullivan.” I remain standing near the door, fighting every instinct that screams at me to run. “Journalist.”
Bianca raises an eyebrow. “A journalist at a secret sex hunt with an iron-clad NDA. That’s either very brave or very stupid. ”
“Probably both.”
Keira moves with fluid grace as she settles onto one of the couches. “Has anyone actually participated in an event like this before?”
The question hangs in the air, met with nervous laughter and shaking heads.
“First time for everyone then,” Lia says, examining her perfectly manicured nails. “How wonderfully democratic.”
Sadie speaks up from her corner, her analytical mind clearly working. “The NDAs were identical. Same terms, same consequences. Whatever they have planned, they want complete control over the narrative afterward.”
“Control.” Bianca’s voice turns bitter. “Seems to be the theme tonight.”
“So,” Lia says, settling deeper into the velvet cushions, “anyone have weekend plans after surviving this?”
Keira laughs, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “I was supposed to choreograph a music video shoot on Monday. Assuming I still have functioning legs.”
“Optimistic,” Sadie mutters, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I have three client presentations scheduled. Corporate cybersecurity isn’t exactly forgiving of mysterious bruises.”
Cora grins. “I’m supposed to attend a charity luncheon with my father. Can you imagine explaining why I’m walking funny?”
“You could always blame it on new heels,” Lia suggests, her voice dripping with amusement. “Works every time.”
The normalcy of the conversation feels surreal given our circumstances. I watch these women—strangers bound together by signed contracts and porcelain masks—trying to pretend we’re at some sort of twisted dinner party.
“What about you, Mira?” Bianca asks. “Any mundane responsibilities waiting?”
“Deadline for a story.” The irony isn’t lost on me. “Though I doubt my editor would accept ‘participated in underground sex hunt’ as justification for being late.”
“Underground sex hunt,” Keira repeats thoughtfully. “When you say it like that, it sounds even more insane.”
“Because it is insane,” I say, leaning forward. “Which is why I think we should stick together. Watch each other’s backs, maybe form some kind of alliance against these masked men.”
The words hang in the air, and I can see the women processing the suggestion.
Lia laughs—a rich, throaty sound that makes me uneasy.
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
Her amber eyes fix on me intensely. “You came here to investigate, fine. Cora came here to rebel against Daddy. But I came here to be hunted. To finally experience something real instead of the sanitized bullshit that passes for excitement in my usual world.”
She stands gracefully, her onyx hair catching the dim light. “I’ve spent years playing it safe, making calculated moves, building my gallery brick by boring brick. Tonight, I want to feel dangerous. I want to know what it’s like when control is stripped away.”
“Lia—”
“No.” Her voice cuts through my protest. “I signed that NDA knowing exactly what it meant. I put on this dress knowing exactly what message it sends.” She smooths the fabric over her curves. “And I will wear this mask knowing exactly what happens when the hunt starts.”
The door opens without warning, cutting through Lia’s declaration like a blade.
Xavier Blackwood steps inside, and every molecule of oxygen seems to vanish from the room.
He’s nothing like the polished criminal mastermind I’ve grown accustomed to seeing at Purgatory.
Gone is the expensive tailored suit, replaced by black riding leathers that hug his frame like a second skin.
A simple black T-shirt stretches across his chest, the casual outfit somehow making him appear more dangerous than any designer clothing ever could.
His dark hair is disheveled, as if he’s been running his fingers through it repeatedly.
But it’s his eyes that rob me of oxygen.
Steel-gray and intense, they lock onto mine the moment he crosses the threshold. Not Cora’s, despite her political pedigree. Not Lia’s, despite the way she pushes her chest out and makes eyes at him.
Mine.
Heat floods me instantly, a traitorous response that makes my cheeks burn beneath the porcelain mask. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m certain everyone can hear it over the silence that’s fallen.
I should look away. Should break this connection that feels like a live wire between us. It’s crucial to remember that this man is my target, my story, my enemy.
Instead, I find myself drinking in every detail. The way the leather molds to his muscular thighs. How his T-shirt reveals the corded strength in his forearms. The slight sheen of sweat at his temples suggests he’s just come from somewhere important, somewhere that required speed and urgency.
His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile, and I feel like he’s reading every inappropriate thought crossing my mind. That he can see past my carefully constructed walls, straight to the part of me that responds to his darkness with an answering hunger I refuse to acknowledge.