Page 4 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)

XAVIER

I tap my pen against the leather desk blotter, staring at the embossed invitations laid out before me. Three already addressed, two blank. The final spots for the Hunt.

My annual game requires perfect balance—five women and fifteen men. The math is simple, the execution less so. Each participant must meet exacting criteria: wealth, connections, and expendability if things go wrong. Most importantly, they must be outsiders to Purgatory’s inner workings.

Yet here I am, contemplating inviting Mira Sullivan. An employee. A fascinating contradiction wrapped in chestnut hair and delicious defiance.

“Fuck.” I pour another whiskey.

The amber liquid catches the light as I swirl it, much like Mira has been swirling through my thoughts since our encounter. Knox would call this reckless. Vane would call it stupid. Landon wouldn’t say a lot, but I’d know from the look on his face. And they’d be right.

I take a slow sip, letting the warmth it brings shroud the frustration building in my chest. The Hunt operates under strict parameters. Rules exist for a reason—breaking them creates vulnerability, and vulnerability creates risk. And not all risk creates reward.

But the image of Mira challenging me, her hazel eyes flashing with that infuriating cocktail of fear and courage, refusing to fade.

I return my focus to my desk, fingers brushing over the blank invitation. Employees know too much. They see behind the curtain. The Hunt exposes our operation’s darkest edges—something no staff member should witness firsthand.

Yet Mira isn’t just any employee. She’s different. Calculating. Driven by something beyond mere curiosity. Perhaps that’s what draws me to her—the sense that she’s playing her own game, just as I play mine.

The Hunt requires participants who are unfamiliar with the rules. Whose fear is genuine. Whose submission means something.

I lift one of the blank invitations, feeling its weight. Two weeks until everything begins. My brothers expect perfection. The guests expect decadence. The Hunt demands a flawless balance.

I press my pen to paper, hesitating for only a moment before writing her name neatly.

Rules exist to be followed—except when breaking them serves a greater purpose. And I want to see what Mira Sullivan does when she’s truly afraid and at my mercy.

I’m about to place Mira’s invitation in its envelope when the door to my office swings open without a knock. Only one person walks into my space with such casual disregard.

“Shouldn’t you be terrorizing the staff or something equally productive, Knox?” I don’t look up as my younger brother sprawls into the leather chair opposite my desk.

“Terrorizing is your specialty, big brother.

I prefer to call it ‘employee morale assessment.’ “Knox grins, reaching for one of the crystal tumblers to pour himself whiskey from my decanter.

“Besides, the new bartender in section three makes the most fascinating faces when I change my drink order three times.”

I slide the stack of invitations into my desk drawer, but Knox’s quick eyes catch Mira’s name before I can hide it completely.

“Hold up.” His typical playfulness evaporates, replaced by something rarely seen on my youngest brother’s face—genuine concern. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

“Since when do you care about the Hollow’s Hunt invitations?”

Knox leans forward, all traces of his usual carelessness gone. “Since you decided to invite a fucking reporter to our most exclusive event.”

My hand stills. “What are you talking about?”

“Mira Sullivan. A freelance investigative journalist with a rather impressive portfolio of exposés on corruption in high places.” Knox pulls out his phone and then slides it across my desk.

“She’s been published in several major outlets.

Got quite the reputation for going undercover and destroying people’s lives with what she finds. ”

I scroll through the articles on his screen, seeing Mira’s byline on pieces about corrupt politicians, drug dealers, and corporate fraud.

“The bartending gig? It’s bullshit. She’s fishing for a story about us, about Purgatory.” Knox retrieves his phone. “I’ve been watching her. She asks too many questions and listens too carefully. Not exactly subtle if you know what to look for.”

I tap my fingers against the desk as a smirk forms across my lips. Mira Sullivan isn’t just another employee hoping to catch my eye. She’s hunting for information, for weakness—playing a far more dangerous game than I realized.

“You think this is funny?” Knox asks incredulously. “Xavier, you can’t?—”

“On the contrary,” I interrupt, “I find it fascinating.”

“You shouldn’t find it fascinating. You should find it concerning.” Knox downs his whiskey. “We should fire her immediately.”

I lean back in my chair, studying my brother’s uncharacteristically serious expression. The irony isn’t lost on me—Knox, the perpetual chaos agent, advocating for caution.

“Mira Sullivan has written some impressive pieces,” I acknowledge, “but she’s never tried to take down an organization like ours. There’s a vast difference between exposing a corrupt politician or a few low level drug dealers and infiltrating a criminal empire.”

“She’s dangerous,” Knox insists.

“She’s ambitious,” I correct him. “And entirely out of her depth. Journalists like Sullivan believe they’re untouchable because they carry the shield of the free press. She has no idea what real danger looks like.”

I grab her invitation and hold it up to the light. Far from deterred now, Knox’s revelation has only bolstered my interest in her.

“You’re still inviting her? After what I just told you?” Knox stares at me incredulously.

“I’m especially inviting her now,” I say, sliding the invitation into its envelope. “I find myself even more intrigued by her. Think about it—she walked into Purgatory of her own volition, believing she could expose us without consequences. That kind of audacity deserves special attention.”

Knox studies my expression. “You want to play with her.”

“I want to watch her realize exactly what she’s gotten herself into,” I seal the envelope. “If Mira Sullivan comes to the Hollow’s Hunt, I won’t just expose her little investigation—I’ll break her. Completely.”

“And if she publishes something?”

“The NDA will ensure she can’t.” I smile. “By the time I’m finished with her, she’ll question everything she thinks she knows.”

Knox glances at my desk. The alcohol has loosened his tongue enough that he abandons his crusade against Mira Sullivan’s invitation.

“So, who’s the other blank invitation for?” he asks, gesturing toward the pile. “Or are we down to four women this year?”

I lean back in my chair. “Not decided yet. Why?”

Knox bites his lip, a tell I’ve recognized since he was a child trying to hide something valuable.

Interesting. I can count on one hand the number of times Knox has shown genuine interest in our selection process for the Hunt.

He typically waits to see who catches his eye during the event itself, leaving the planning to me.

“You have someone in mind.” It’s not a question.

“Maybe.” His fingers tap against the arm of the chair.

“Keira, Mira, Lia, and Sadie are already selected,” I inform him.

“If you’re suddenly taking an interest in our guest list, I’m curious to know why.

” After all, he’s not the first brother to advocate for an invitee.

Vane picked Lia, but that’s not unusual.

He normally likes to pick a woman before the Hunt.

Knox shifts in his seat, and seeing his discomfort, gives me a rare moment of amusement. My perpetually confident brother is suddenly acting like an awkward teenager piques my interest.

“For fuck’s sake, Knox. Spit it out. Who do you want invited?”

“Bianca,” he says. “Bianca Hayes.”

The new artist whom Knox found for me to create pieces for Purgatory’s more exclusive rooms. Talented, fiercely independent, and completely unimpressed by Knox’s usual charm offensive.

“Bianca Hayes,” I repeat. “My, my... the woman who told you your taste in art was ‘slightly more refined than a college freshman with their first credit card’? That Bianca Hayes?”

Knox scowls. “She’s... interesting.”

“Interesting,” I echo. “That’s certainly one word for a woman who seems entirely immune to your particular brand of bullshit.”

Knox growls, slumping further into the chair. “Fuck you, Xavier.”

I chuckle, enjoying the rare opportunity to see my younger brother squirm. Knox, who never misses a chance to torment everyone around him, despises being on the receiving end.

“What’s wrong, little brother? You dish it out to everyone who crosses your path, but can’t take it when it comes back your way?” I tap the blank envelope against my desk. “Seems only fair after years of your relentless commentary on everyone else’s interests.”

“Are you inviting her or not?” Knox asks.

I consider the request. Knox rarely shows genuine interest in anything. The fact that he’s asking for something—and seeming uncomfortable about it—makes me curious about this woman who’s managed to get under his skin.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, which is as close to agreement as he’ll get from me.

Knox seems satisfied with that answer; leaning forward, he changes 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,” Knox mutters.

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

“Solid lineup,” Knox nods, reaching for the whiskey again.

“Should be an interesting Hunt.” He pours himself two fingers and downs it like it’s cheap tequila rather than savoring the taste of the scotch that costs a thousand dollars a bottle.

“You think this is a good idea?” Knox asks, refilling his glass again.

“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.”

I tap my fingers against the invitation bearing Mira Sullivan’s name. The revelation of her true identity doesn’t diminish my interest—it heightens it. A journalist playing bartender, thinking she can expose our operation with a few well-placed questions and observant eyes.

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

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

I barely register his words because my mind is calculating and reassessing my interaction with Mira—her challenging stare, the careful way she positions herself to overhear conversations, how she monitors the VIP section while pretending not to.

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

“I’m wondering,” I say 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?”

Knox shrugs. “Maybe she’s counting on the power of the press. Or maybe she hasn’t thought that far ahead.”

I seal Mira’s invitation, my decision made. “Either way, she’s about to learn a valuable lesson about boundaries.”

Knox sighs, aware that I won’t change my mind, no matter what he says. “Fine, your funeral. Don’t come crying to me when it all goes to shit.” He downs the last glass of whiskey and then gives me a salute. “See you later.”

I don’t even reply to him; my thoughts are fixed on Mira Sullivan. I stand and walk to my office window to watch the lights of Ravenwood glitter below.

The fearless bartender is seeking her next big story. Playing dress-up in our world, thinking of herself as a hunter among predators. How utterly, tragically misguided.

I’ve devoured people for far less than what she intends. Yet something about her reckless courage intrigues me. She walks into the lion’s den with nothing but her wits and the misguided belief that the truth offers protection.

I wonder what she’ll do when she discovers there is no safety net, when she realizes that in my world, I determine what truth survives and what truth is buried six feet under.