Page 3 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)
MIRA
I pour the electric-blue cocktail, masking my thoughts with a well-worn smile. Three weeks undercover at Purgatory, and I’m still stuck mixing overpriced cocktails while the real story happens behind closed doors.
“Another Blue Devil for the gentleman in the corner,” I announce, sliding the drink across the obsidian bar top.
My fingers dance over my phone beneath the counter, recording the fragments of conversation that drifted my way. Working at Purgatory is like assembling a jigsaw puzzle in the dark—I’m collecting pieces without seeing the full picture.
The club thumps with bass music and hushed conversations. Through the haze of smoke and dim lighting, I spot Xavier Blackwood across the room, surrounded by his entourage. My real target.
“They’re prepping for the Hunt again,” a waitress whispers to another as they collect drinks from the server’s station at the end of my bar. “Three new girls already selected, two more to choose.”
The Hollow’s Hunt. The third time I’ve heard it mentioned this week.
“When?” I ask, wiping down the counter.
The waitress stiffens. “Don’t ask questions if you want to keep this job.”
She walks away, but I’ve caught another piece. Three girls. Selected for what? The possibilities turn my stomach.
I glance toward the velvet rope that separates the main floor from the VIP section. Behind it sits a door with a keypad, through which the Blackwood brothers disappear night after night. Whatever the Hunt is, I’m betting the answers lie beyond that threshold.
“Mira, you’re needed in the storeroom,” my manager calls out.
I nod, but my eyes stay fixed on Xavier.
The Hollow’s Hunt. Something worth risking my career for, maybe even my life. But people deserve to know what happens in the shadows of Ravenwood Hollow’s most exclusive club. That’s why I’m here, why I’ll keep digging until I uncover the truth.
I may not have VIP access, but journalists like me have cracked harder cases than this. And with the Hunt fast approaching, my window of opportunity is narrowing.
I make my way to the storeroom, squeezing past gyrating bodies on the dance floor. The music fades to a dull thud as I push through the heavy door marked “Staff Only” and flick on the harsh fluorescent lights.
“What the?—”
A man in a rumpled suit sits on a crate of vodka, helping himself to a bottle of Macallan 25. The amber liquid sloshes as he tilts it toward me in a mock toast.
“Join me, beautiful.” His words slur together, eyes unfocused. “Too stuffy out there. Found somethin’ better.”
I step back toward the door. “Sir, you’re not allowed in here. I need you to return to the main floor.”
He staggers to his feet, knocking over empty bottles. “Don’t be like that. We’re just gettin’ started.”
“Security!” I shout, backing up until I hit the wall. “We have an intruder?—”
He lunges forward, whiskey breath hot against my face as his fingers dig into my arms. “Shut up, bitch.”
I knee him in the groin and twist, but he’s stronger than his drunken state suggests. His grip tightens, and I feel the panic rising in my throat.
“Let go!” I scream, clawing at his hands.
The door bangs open. A blur of movement, and suddenly, the drunk is sprawled on the floor, blood trickling from his nose. Above him stands a man I’ve only observed from a distance—Xavier Blackwood, his knuckles slightly reddened, expression unreadable.
“Are you hurt?” His voice is quiet and completely at odds with the brutality of moments ago.
I straighten my uniform, willing my hands to stop shaking. “I’m fine.”
He assesses me with unsettling intensity. “You’re the new bartender.”
Not a question. I’ve been watching Xavier Blackwood for weeks—did he know I was watching?
“Three weeks,” I confirm. This is my chance to make contact. “Thanks for stepping in.”
“Call security next time. They get paid to protect more than liquor and furniture. Have one of them with you when entering less populated areas of the club.” He glances at the unconscious man.
He reaches for me, and the instant our hands meet, something sparks—too sudden, too intense to ignore.
I’ve spent weeks observing him from afar.
Being this close strips away the gaps in my surveillance: the sharp scent of his cologne, the effortless way his suit clings to him, the quiet strength behind even the smallest gesture.
“I didn’t need rescuing,” I say, withdrawing my hand but maintaining eye contact.
The corner of his mouth lifts, then stills. Whatever that was, it wasn’t a smile. “Clearly.”
He watches me with a gaze so sharp it’s like he’s reading secrets I didn’t mean to share. My heart pounds—fear or excitement, I can’t tell which, unnerved regardless.
“Mira Sullivan,” he says, and hearing him say my name sends a shiver down my spine. “You mix an impressive Blue Devil.”
He’s been watching me. The realization thrills and terrifies me in equal measure.
“I’m particular about details,” I reply. This encounter could be my opening. “Something we might have in common, Mr. Blackwood.”
“Xavier,” he corrects. “You’re not like the others. Overqualified to be slinging drinks.”
His perceptiveness is dangerous, and I need to redirect him.
“Maybe I’m exactly where I need to be,” I challenge. “Purgatory has quite the reputation.”
His expression remains unreadable, but something shifts in his eyes.
“Does it meet your expectations?” he asks, stepping closer. The space between us crackles with tension.
“I suspect there’s more to discover,” I respond.
The security team bursts in, breaking our moment. Xavier gives them instructions about the unconscious patron without looking away from me. When they drag the man out, we’re alone again.
Xavier’s eyes narrow as he takes a step closer, his presence overwhelming the small storeroom.
“And what exactly do you think there is to discover at Purgatory, Ms. Sullivan?”
I keep my composure, even as my heart slams against my ribs. This is the closest I’ve come to cracking the surface of my investigation.
“A club like this doesn’t maintain its reputation on overpriced drinks and a good sound system,” I reply, matching his intensity. “I’ve heard whispers about private events and exclusive gatherings beyond that door in the VIP section. ”
“And what do you think happens behind those doors?” Xavier asks. “What do you think Purgatory is?”
I straighten my shoulders. “Something worth hiding. Something powerful people pay good money to experience.”
A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “You sound quite confident for someone mixing drinks on the wrong side of the velvet rope.”
“I’m observant,” I counter.
“Are you?” he rasps. “Do the whispers match the story you’ve built in your head? Do you know what desire looks like when it’s let loose—when people drop the pretenses and go after what they truly want?”
My reporter’s instincts tingle. There’s something specific he’s referring to, something beyond the drug dealing and money laundering I’m certain he’s involved in. Whatever’s happening behind those doors might be bigger than I thought.
“Why don’t you show me?” I suggest boldly.
Xavier’s eyes darken, and a slow, devilish smile spreads across his face. He steps closer, the space between us evaporating until I can feel the heat radiating from him. My back presses against the wall, but I refuse to shrink under his gaze.
“Show you?” He reaches up, brushing a strand of hair from my face with what feels like deliberate care as if appraising what stands before him—me. “Careful what you ask for, Ms. Sullivan. Not everyone who enters Purgatory’s inner sanctum leaves with their... innocence intact. ”
His fingers trail down my cheek, making my breath catch. Still, I maintain eye contact, refusing to be intimidated.
“Curious little bartender,” he murmurs. “I admire ambition, even when it’s misguided.”
He leans in, his lips nearly grazing my ear. “Perhaps you’ll receive an invitation soon. We’re preparing for something special. An event where desires become a reality and only the worthy survive.”
My heart pounds against my ribcage, anxiety welling up at his words. The Hollow’s Hunt. It has to be.
“Only the most intriguing people receive such invitations,” he continues, his fingers now tracing the line of my collarbone, sending unwanted shivers down my spine. “Are you intriguing enough, I wonder?”
“I guess you’ll have to find out,” I challenge.
Xavier steps back, studying me with renewed interest. “I suppose so.”
This is it—the opening I’ve been waiting for. Three weeks of dead ends and superficial observations could finally give way to the real story. If I can get into the Hunt, I might finally uncover whatever the Blackwoods are hiding behind Purgatory’s polished facade.
The thought thrills me—and scares the hell out of me. I’ve heard enough whispers to know I’m playing with fire, but some stories are worth getting burned for.