Page 26 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)

MIRA

T he blade against my skin should terrify me. The way Xavier manipulates my pleasure while I’m helpless should make me sick with rage. Instead, heat pools low in my belly as his fingers move inside me.

“Stop,” I whisper, but the word comes out breathless and wanting.

“Make me believe it,” he challenges, his thumb rubbing my clit in devastating circles.

My hips roll against his hand despite the restraints holding me in place. The cool metal of the knife traces patterns across my heated skin while his fingers stroke deeper, finding spots that make stars explode behind my closed eyelids.

This isn’t me. The Mira Sullivan who spent months researching the Blackwoods before taking a job at Purgatory four weeks ago doesn’t melt at the first touch from a criminal .

“You’re thinking too hard,” Xavier murmurs. “Stop fighting your desires.”

The blade moves lower, cool metal contrasting with the fire building within.

“I hate you,” I gasp.

“No, you don’t.” His voice is pure confidence. “You hate that you want this. There’s a difference.”

His thumb finds my clit again, slow and deliberate, and I bite down hard—metallic heat blooming on my tongue. The restraints bite into my wrists as I strain against them, needing resistance, needing release, as he pushes me closer to the edge that I can’t stop chasing.

The part of me trained to observe takes it all in—the blade brushing close but never breaking the skin, the way his fingers find every nerve like they were made for it.

But the woman under his hands doesn’t care about evidence. She cares about the heat pooling between her thighs.

“Come for me,” Xavier commands.

Before my brain can catch up, pleasure engulfs me in waves that leave me thrashing against the restraints. My orgasm is violent and all consuming.

The knife disappears from my skin as tremors course through me. Xavier’s touch turns gentle, fingers stroking through the wetness he coaxed from me with devastating skill.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the red marks the blade left across my collarbone. “You take it so perfectly. ”

His mouth is warm against the sensitized skin where metal had traced moments before. Each kiss burns, not from pain but from the tenderness that has no place in this fucked up scenario. The gentleness feels more dangerous than the knife ever did.

“I knew you would.” Another kiss, this one to the mark along my shoulder, where he dragged the blade in a perfect line. “From the first moment I saw you, I knew you’d surrender beautifully.”

Every brush of his lips against abused skin drives me wild. The restraints keep me upright as my legs tremble, muscles weak from the orgasm he wrung from me.

“Shh,” Xavier soothes when I try to speak, his mouth moving to trace the red line across my throat. “Just feel.”

The kiss there is barely a whisper, reverent in a way that makes my chest tight. His hands smooth over my sides, checking for actual damage despite the care he took with the blade. Finding none, he continues his path of gentle kisses along every mark he left.

A sharp cry echoes through the chamber, distinctly feminine and raw with pleasure. Through the haze of my post-orgasmic state, I catch glimpses of movement—a green mask and dark hair, bodies moving with brutal intensity against the far wall.

Lia’s voice rings out again, demanding and desperate. The sounds of their coupling are violent, all slapping skin and harsh breathing. Yet even from this distance, even in my compromised state, I can tell she’s driving the encounter as much as he is.

“Don’t watch them,” Xavier commands softly, his thumb brushing across my cheek to turn my attention back to him. “Watch me.”

His eyes are intense, studying my face with the same focus he had given to manipulating my pleasure. Another kiss lands on the mark below my ear, so gentle it could almost be called loving.

If this were anyone else. Anywhere else.

But it’s not, and the tenderness feels like another form of manipulation.

His fingers trace one final path along the red marks decorating my skin, touch impossibly gentle after what he put me through. The contrast makes my head spin—this tender Xavier feels more dangerous than the one wielding the knife.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip. “Marked. Mine.”

The possessive edge to his voice sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. My body still trembles from the aftershocks of what he forced from me, every nerve ending sensitive to his touch.

“So responsive. So willing to give me exactly what I need.”

His praise feels like poison wrapped in silk, each word designed to burrow under my skin and take root. I want to reject it, want to spit defiance in his face, but my tongue feels thick and useless.

“Such a good girl,” Xavier continues, his fingers trailing down my throat to rest over my racing pulse. “Taking everything I give you.”

The endearment makes my stomach clench. I’m not his anything, good or otherwise. I made a tactical error, nothing more.

But my body doesn’t seem to understand that distinction.

Xavier steps back abruptly, the loss of his warmth making me shiver despite the heated air in the chamber. His hands move to the restraints holding my wrists, and I feel the leather straps loosen.

Freedom.

My arms drop to my sides, muscles screaming from being held in position for so long. I flex my fingers, working feeling back into my hands as Xavier watches.

“Now,” he says, that dark, silky voice taking on a sharper edge. “Be a good girl and run for me again.”

The command hits me like a physical blow. After everything—after reducing me to trembling need and wringing that devastating orgasm from my unwilling body—he wants to hunt me through this maze again.

A dark glint enters his eyes, making ice form in my veins, despite the heat still coursing through me.

“What happens if I don’t?” I hear myself ask, hating how breathless I still sound.

Xavier’s smile is all sharp edges, promising violence.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purrs, taking a step closer. “I have ways to make you run.”

I don’t move.

My legs shake from the aftershocks still coursing through my body, but I plant my feet and stare him down. “No. ”

The word drops between us like a gauntlet. Xavier’s head tilts, and I catch the flash of genuine surprise.

“No?” he repeats.

“You heard me.” I cross my arms over my chest, hyperaware of how exposed I am in the torn red silk, how the fabric barely covers anything after his rough handling. “I’m not running anymore.”

Part of me wants to see what he’ll do when someone refuses to play his game. I catalog this as valuable information about his methods and psychology. But there’s another part—a part I don’t want to acknowledge—that’s curious about what other tools Xavier Blackwood has in his arsenal.

“Interesting.” He takes a step back, pulling out his phone with casual ease. “You know, Mira, when someone doesn’t follow the rules of my game, I have to get creative about motivation.”

The screen illuminates his mask as he taps on it. A moment later, the sound fills the chamber—not from the displays showing other hunts but from speakers hidden throughout the space.

Cora’s voice was raw with fear and pain.

“Please, I don’t want this. Please let me go.”

My blood turns to ice. The audio is crystal clear, Cora’s desperate pleas echoing off the metal walls around us. I can hear male voices responding, cruel laughter, and the sound of fabric tearing.

“Stop,” I whisper, but Xavier keeps scrolling through what sounds like a live feed.

“She’s being very uncooperative,” he muses, adjusting the volume so Cora’s cries grow louder. “My fellow hunters are animals.”

A scream cuts through the air, high and sharp with genuine terror. My best friend’s scream.

“You bastard.” The words tear from my throat as I lunge toward him, but Xavier catches my wrists easily.

“The longer you stand here defying me,” he says conversationally, “the less chance youhave of finding her.”

Another cry from the speakers, weaker this time. Broken.

“Run, Mira,” Xavier whispers against my ear, his grip on my wrists tightening. “Run fast enough, and maybe you’ll save her before they permanently damage your precious friend.”

He releases me with a shove, and I stumble backward on unsteady legs. The audio continues streaming from hidden speakers.

“Tick-tock,” Xavier says, checking his watch theatrically.

I hate him.

I hate Xavier Blackwood with every fiber of my being as I turn and sprint deeper into the freaky chamber full of spikes. My bare feet slap against the cold marble floor, the sound echoing off the twisted architecture around me.

But I run anyway.

Cora’s screams still ring in my ears from those speakers, each cry driving me forward even as my body protests. My legs shake from the orgasm he wrung from me, muscles weak and unsteady, but terror for my best friend gives me strength I didn’t know I had.

A part of me recognizes this for what it is—manipulation at its finest. Xavier played my emotions like a virtuoso, using my love for Cora against me. He knew exactly which buttons to push to make me comply after I’d finally found the courage to say no.

I run anyway.

Because real or fabricated, I can’t risk those screams being genuine. I can’t live with myself if Cora comes to harm because I was too proud to play his sick game.

The corridor narrows as I go deeper, metal spikes jutting from the walls at increasingly sharp angles. What started as decorative intimidation has become a hazardous obstacle. The space between the spikes shrinks with each step, forcing me to weave between them more carefully.

My breathing comes in short gasps, partly due to exertion and partly due to the growing claustrophobia. The red lights cast everything in hellish shadows, making the spikes look larger and more menacing than they probably are.

But probably isn’t good enough when razor-sharp metal hovers inches from my skin.

The walls seem to pulse inward with each beat of my heart, spikes reaching for me like grasping fingers. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the controlled temperature as the space continues to contract.

Too close. They’re getting too close.

A whimper escapes my throat as I press myself against what little clear wall space remains. The spikes aren’t just decoration anymore—they’re a trap.

My chest tightens with panic as the realization hits. There’s no way forward without risking impalement, but going back means facing Xavier again. This means abandoning any chance of helping Cora.

The metal walls seem to breathe around me, spikes gleaming like teeth in a closing mouth.

I don’t think—I move.

My legs pump beneath me as I sprint toward the narrowing gap between the spikes. The metal points gleam like fangs in the red light, reaching for me from all sides. There’s maybe three feet of clearance, shrinking with each second that passes.

Two and a half feet.

Two feet.

I launch myself forward, diving between the closing walls as the spikes scrape together behind me. The sound of metal grinding against metal fills the corridor, and I feel the brush of razor-sharp points against my back as I tumble through.

My knees hit marble on the other side, skin sliding against the polished flooring. I’m alive.

And I’m exactly where Xavier wanted me to be.

The thought hits me as I scramble to my feet, looking back at the now-closed passage. The spikes have sealed completely, forming an impenetrable wall of metal teeth. There’s no going back the way I came.

Of course, there isn’t.

Because Xavier Blackwood doesn’t leave anything to chance. Every corridor, every trap, every moment of seeming choice—it’s all designed to push me deeper into his maze. The spike trap wasn’t meant to kill me. It was meant to force me forward.

Into whatever fresh horror he’s prepared next.

I turn away from the sealed passage and face the corridor ahead. More red lights, more shadows, more uncertainty about what waits around each corner.

But I run anyway.

My bare feet slap against cold marble as I sprint down the new passageway, not daring to look back at the trap I escaped. Every instinct screams that I’m walking deeper into his web, playing his game exactly as he intended.

The walls here are smooth, with no spikes or obvious threats, but that doesn’t make me feel safer. If anything, the normalcy feels more ominous. Xavier’s mind doesn’t work in straight lines—the real danger always comes when you think you’re safe.

Cora’s screams still echo in my memory, driving me forward even as my rational mind catalogs the tactical errors I’m making. Running blindly into unknown territory. Following the path of least resistance. Doing exactly what my captor expects.

What choice do I have?

I round a corner and find myself facing three different corridors, branching off in different directions. Each one is identical, each one equally dark and foreboding.

Another choice that isn’t really a choice at all.