Page 45 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)
MIRA
W hen the servers finally clear the untouched plates, I exhale in relief. Most of the invited guests never even pretended to eat, too engrossed in the vulgarity unfolding before them.
One woman, formerly so dignified, abandoned all pretense of propriety, her hand disappearing beneath her designer dress as she watched the scenes play out.
A man nearby didn’t even try to hide his desires, stroking himself openly.
At the same time, his eyes feasted on the display of male submission.
I glanced over as one man came first, his face flushed red with shameful pleasure at witnessing the very person he’d once prosecuted being utterly dominated. The irony would be amusing if everything about this situation weren’t so forbidden.
Moments later, another guest lost their composure entirely, fingers moving between their legs as they reached their peak, mesmerized by the power dynamics at play. Even someone I’d always perceived as frigid couldn’t help but let out a soft moan as they touched themselves beneath the table.
But through it all, my eyes keep returning to Cora.
They passed her between them throughout the meal as if she were dessert to be shared.
Dominic had her first, his hands rough as he positioned her on his lap.
He passed her to Liam, who made her cry out from the brutality.
Finally, Ryder, who was surprisingly gentle but no less thorough, made her ride him.
By the final course, my vibrant, rebellious best friend looked utterly shattered. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused as if she’s retreated somewhere deep inside herself to survive this.
I want to save her from this nightmare. Still, Xavier’s cock is buried deep inside me, reminding me that my situation is as helpless.
Across the table, Cora’s stepmother watches the destruction of her stepdaughter with cold detachment.
Eleanor Pike never liked Cora—saw her as competition for the mayor’s affection and a reminder of his first marriage.
Now, she observes Cora’s systematic degradation with the same expression she’d wear watching a mildly interesting documentary.
No maternal instinct. No protective fury. Simply frigid calculation, probably already pondering how this scandal might benefit her.
That woman disgusts me more than the men actively participating in this depravity.
Xavier’s voice cuts through the debauched atmosphere like a blade. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us this evening. The public portion of our celebration has concluded.”
The guests straighten in their chairs, some still breathing heavily from their voyeuristic indulgences. Mrs. Patterson clears her throat while Councilman Torres hastily adjusts his pants.
“What follows is a private ritual reserved only for those who participated directly in the Hunt,” Xavier continues, his tone brooking no argument. “We ask that you respect this tradition and allow us to proceed without observers.”
The guests follow a waiter slowly, some still adjusting their clothing, others casting longing glances back at the erotic scene they’re being forced to abandon.
Mrs. Patterson lingers near the door, her eyes drinking in one last look at Julian’s satisfied expression as Elliot remains impaled on his lap. Councilman Torres practically stumbles out, his legs unsteady from his earlier climax.
Within minutes, the dining hall empties of all observers, leaving only the fourteen hunters and their prey. The atmosphere shifts immediately—no longer a performance for the corrupt elite of Ravenwood.
Xavier’s hand slides possessively over my hip as he addresses the room. “The traditional claiming period begins now. You have until dawn to decide if you wish to keep your prey for the full year, as outlined in our contracts. ”
My blood turns to ice. A full year.
Somehow, I’d forgotten that caveat.
“For those sharing prey,” his gaze flicks meaningfully toward Cora and her three captors, “you may choose to claim your prey together or individually. The decision is yours alone. Be mindful, however— if you choose to do it individually, it will afford each of you four months with her culminating in twelve months.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to process what this means. Seventy-two hours of this hell were already more than I could handle. A year would decimate my entire life.
With all of that being said, there is still a twisted part of me that makes me hate myself—that ignites a flutter of anticipation in my chest. The idea that this is only a three-day game, that Xavier might walk away tomorrow and forget I exist, makes my stomach churn.
How would I feel if that were to happen?
I’m not sure I can even answer that for myself, but it suddenly makes my heart sink.
I’ve spent my entire adult life maintaining independence and never letting anyone get close enough to matter.
Now, this dangerous, calculating man has torn through every defense I’ve constructed; the thought of him discarding me feels like I’m drowning, like I’m being dragged under and held there just below the waterline, unable to reach the surface without him.
Around the room, the other hunters murmur among themselves, weighing their options. Dominic’s hand tangles in Cora’s hair as he exchanges meaningful looks with Liam and Ryder. The Dexter twins don’t even hesitate—they’re already whispering possessive promises to Keira about the year ahead.
But Xavier remains silent, tracing lazy patterns on my bare skin. I can’t see his expression with him behind me, can’t tell if he’s considering staking his claim on me or calculating the most efficient way to dispose of me now that the Hunt has ended.
The uncertainty is killing me.
The silence stretches between us until I can’t stand it anymore, and I gather what’s left of my courage.
“What are you going to do?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “About... claiming me.”
Xavier’s fingers pause their lazy exploration of my skin. “That’s an interesting question.” His voice carries that familiar edge of danger that both terrifies and excites me. “But I think the more important question is what you want.”
“What do I want?” I echo.
“Mmm.” His free hand slides up my thigh possessively. “Do you want me to walk away tomorrow? Let you return to your mundane life, your pathetic existence, living only for journalism?”
Each word lands like a slap. I open my mouth to protest, but he continues.
“Or...” His thumb traces the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, making me shiver. “Do you want my cock splitting you open every night for the next year? Do you want to belong to me completely—body, mind, and that stubborn little soul of yours?”
The crude words should offend me. It should make me recoil and remember who I am and what I stand for. They don’t, though, they send heat pooling between my legs, making its own demands known in no uncertain terms.
“I—” I start, then stop because I don’t know how to answer. Don’t know how to reconcile the independent woman I’ve always been with the creature he’s turned me into.
“Tell me what you want, Mira.” His voice drops to that low, commanding tone that makes my brain go fuzzy as it fills my mind with the possibility. “Do you want me to claim you? To own you? To make you mine for an entire year while you pretend you don’t love every second of it?”
My hands tremble where they rest on the table. Around us, the other hunters and their prey continue their negotiations, but the sound fades to white noise. There’s only Xavier, only this impossible choice he’s forcing me to make.
“I...” The word comes out in barely a whisper. “I don’t know.”
“Liar.” His thumb presses against my clit through the silk, making me gasp. “You know exactly what it is you want. Do we need to play a game of truth or consequences?”
He releases my throat and pinches my nipples through the thin silk, hard enough to make me arch against him. The sharp sensation shoots straight between my thighs, and I can’t suppress the whimper that escapes my lips.
“You want to know what it would mean if I did? It means bringing you here every single night. Three hundred and sixty-five nights of spreading your legs for me while everyone watches.”
He twists my nipples harder, and I bite down on my lip to keep from moaning.
“I’ll fuck you on every surface in this place,” he continues.
“That stage where you first challenged me—I’ll bend you over it and make you scream my name while the entire club watches.
The bar where you served drinks—I’ll lift you onto it and eat your pussy until you forget your own name. ”
My breathing becomes ragged as his words paint vivid pictures in my mind. I should be horrified; I should be fighting against this twisted fantasy he’s weaving.
“The private booths, the dance floor, my office—there isn’t a single spot in Purgatory where I won’t have had you.
” His teeth graze my earlobe. “And when I’m done with you.
When you’re trembling and dripping with my cum, I’ll make you watch while others perform for us.
You’ll sit on my lap, still filled with my cock, and we’ll watch other couples fuck.
Women and men will be dominated and used while you’re displayed as mine.
” His free hand slides between my legs, fingers pressing against the damp silk.
“You’ll get wet watching them, won’t you? Just like you did tonight.”
The truth of his words makes my cheeks burn with shame. He’s right—watching the others had aroused me almost as much as his touch.
“Every night for a year,” he whispers against my ear. “Owned, fucked, used. Is that what you want, my little exhibitionist? To be my personal fucktoy while all of Ravenwood Hollow watches?”
The words should horrify me, but they drown me instead—his filthy promises washing over me as his fingers weave dark magic between my thighs.
I want it.
God help me. I want every depraved thing he’s describing. The thought of being displayed for his pleasure, of belonging to him so completely that my own identity is stripped away by his ownership—it sends fire racing through my veins.
My resolve is growing weaker by the second, overpowered by the throbbing need between my thighs—the dark hunger Xavier’s awakened in me.
I can’t form words. Can’t bring myself to voice the desires that should shame me. So, I nod, the motion barely perceptible but enough.
“Good,” Xavier purrs against my ear. “Because that’s exactly what you are getting.”
His fingers press harder against my clit through the silk, and I have to bite down on my lip to keep from moaning. The possessive timbre of his voice makes my stomach flutter with a long-absent sensation that feels dangerously close to happiness.
“Every night for a year,” he continues, his breath hot against my neck. “You’ll be mine to use, to display, to fuck however I want. And Mira...”
He pauses, his fingers stilling between my legs. When he speaks again, it’s to profess a dark promise that makes my heart skip a beat.
“I can’t promise I’ll give you up after that year ends.”
The words impact me in a way I’d never expect. It’s not the threat itself but my response to it, with relief so profound it takes my breath away.
My heart pounds against my ribs as the implications sink in. Not just a year of being owned and displayed, but potentially forever.
“Say it,” Xavier commands, his fingers resuming their maddening pressure. “Tell me you want to be owned by me. Tell me you want to belong to me. I need to hear the words from those pretty lips.”
My mouth feels dry, and my voice is barely a whisper when I finally manage to speak. “I want to be yours—owned.”
The words feel foreign on my tongue and strangely liberating.
“I want to belong to you.”
“That’s my good girl,” Xavier murmurs, rewarding my confession with a slow, deliberate circle against my clit that makes me shudder. “So honest. So perfect.”
The praise permeates me like a drug, flooding my system with warmth that has nothing to do with arousal. When did I start craving his approval? When did pleasing this man become more important than my own principles ?
What the fuck has gotten into me?
I built my entire identity around independence, never needing validation from a man, especially one who thought he could control me.
Now I’m sitting naked in a den of depravity, practically purring because Xavier called me a good girl. Actually, no, not just a good girl— his good girl.
He pauses, then his thumb presses harder against the silk between my legs. “Most women take weeks to accept their place. But you’ve surrendered so beautifully, as if you were born to belong to me.”
His words should make me sick. It should trigger every feminist bone in my body to rebel against this archaic dynamic. Instead of feeling disgusted, I almost feel proud of his words, and that might be the most depraved thing of all.
The woman who demanded answers from corrupt politicians, who never backed down from a fight, who built her reputation on refusing to be intimidated—she’s been systematically dismantled and reforged.
Xavier has molded me into a needy slut who craves his touch, his approval, and his dominance.
“Look at how wet you get from my praise,” he whispers against my ear, his fingers sliding inside me.
The direct contact makes me gasp, my hips bucking against his hand. I can barely process anything beyond Xavier’s fingers and the filthy words he’s pouring into my ear.
“You were made for this, weren’t you?” His voice carries absolute certainty. “Made to be my perfect little fucktoy.”
The crude term should offend me. It should snap me out of this haze and remind me who I am. But instead, it sends another wave of heat through me, my pussy clenching around him as if trying to pull him deeper.
What kind of person have I become that being called a fucktoy makes me wet?