Page 50 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)

XAVIER

T he sheets stick to my skin as I force myself to sit up, every muscle protesting the movement.

Mira lies sprawled beside me, her dark hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink.

Her lips are swollen from my kisses, her throat marked with the evidence of my teeth.

The sight of her like this—completely mine and exhausted—sends a fresh wave of satisfaction through me.

I’ve had her four times since we got to my penthouse.

Against the wall by the door before we even made it to the bedroom.

In the shower when she tried to clean up.

Bent over the kitchen counter when she attempted to make coffee.

And finally, in my bed, where I took her slow and deep until she screamed my name and collapsed against my chest.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Tyson’s name flashes across the screen, and reality crashes back into focus. The trade. I’d almost forgotten about the carnival crew coming tonight, too lost in the haze of finally having Mira back in my arms.

I slide out of bed as carefully as possible, but the mattress dips anyway. Mira stirs, her eyes fluttering open to track my movement across the room.

“Where are you going?” Her voice is hoarse from all the screaming she’s done today. The sound goes straight to my cock, which is already hardening despite all of the sex we’ve already had throughout the day.

“Business,” I say, pulling on my black pants. “Go back to sleep.”

She pushes herself up on her elbow, the sheet slipping down to reveal the curve of her breast. The sight makes my hands pause on my jacket zipper.

“What kind of business?”

Her tone is different. Alert. The need to research and investigate within her is waking up, pushing past the satisfied woman who’s been pliant in my arms all day.

I yank the zipper up with more force than necessary. “The kind that doesn’t concern you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Everything about you concerns me now, Xavier. I signed a contract, remember?”

“That doesn’t make you my business partner.” I grab my gloves from the dresser, avoiding her gaze. “It makes you my property.”

The words come out harsher than I intended, but I need the distance. I need to remember who I am when I’m not consumed by her.

“Is that what this is?” She sits up fully now, holding the sheet against her chest. “You fuck me senseless to keep me distracted?”

“Mira—”

“How convenient that you have ‘business’ the moment I start asking questions.”

The hurt that flashes across her face is telling, but Knox’s voice echoes in my head.

What’s your exit strategy when Mira starts digging again?

The warning pounds against my skull, drowning out the part of me that wants to crawl back into bed and lose myself in her again.

My chest tightens as my walls slam into place. This is what I do. This is who I am. I don’t let women get close enough to hurt me or my family. They don’t get an opinion, they get dick. Literally

“You’re hurt,” I observe, my voice turning stoic. Distant. “Because I won’t share business details with someone I’ve known for less than a month.”

Her eyes widen at the shift in my tone. “Xavier?—”

“You signed a contract to be my sexual property, Mira. Not my confidante. Not my partner.” Each word feels like swallowing glass, but I force them out anyway. “Don’t confuse a good fuck with intimacy.”

She flinches like I’ve slapped her. The sheet slips from her fingers, exposing her breasts fully, but she doesn’t seem to notice. All her attention is focused on my face, searching for the man who held her so gently earlier .

That man is gone. Locked away where he can’t make stupid decisions that become stupid mistakes.

“I have to go to a meeting.” I shrug on my leather jacket, the familiar weight settling around my shoulders like armor. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Xavier, wait?—”

But I’m already moving toward the door, my footsteps echoing in the silence between us. I can feel her watching me, can sense the confusion and pain radiating from the bed, but I don’t turn around.

Can’t turn around.

Because if I look at her face right now—if I see the hurt I’ve put there—I might do something stupid like apologize. Or worse, stay.

And Blackwoods don’t do either of those things.

The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. My hands are shaking as I walk toward the elevator, but I tell myself it’s adrenaline from the upcoming trade.

Not regret.

Never that.

The roar of my BMW’s engine cuts through the night air as I lean into the curve, accelerating more than necessary.

The familiar weight of the bike beneath me does nothing to ease the tension coiled in my shoulders.

Every mile between me and the penthouse should make this easier.

Still, Mira’s face keeps flashing to the forefront of my mind—the way she looked when I called her property.

I shake my head, focusing on the road ahead. Business. This is what matters. Not whatever the hell is happening between us. She’s mine, she can wait. Better to learn her place quickly.

The warehouse looms ahead, its darkened windows reflecting the streetlights like dead eyes. I can already see the other bikes parked in the shadows—Knox’s neon blue Aprilia and Lars’s Triumph Bonneville.

I pull into the lot and kill the engine, the sudden silence deafening after the constant growl of the motor. Through the open bay door, I can see figures moving inside, their voices carrying across the concrete.

“—told you he’d show up eventually,” Knox’s voice drifts out, laced with amusement. “Though I’ve never seen Xavier Blackwood late for anything in my life.”

Fuck. I check my watch and realize I’m fifteen minutes behind schedule. In our world, punctuality isn’t a matter of professional courtesy—it’s a matter of survival. Being late means you’re distracted. Distracted means vulnerable.

And I’ve never been either.

I stride through the bay door, my boots echoing against the concrete. Knox leans against a stack of crates, grinning like he’s Cheshire fucking cat.

“Well, well,” Knox drawls, pushing off the crates. “Look who decided to grace us with his presence.”

I ignore him and scan the warehouse. Tyson stands near a row of boxes, his signature confident stance unchanged despite the late hour. Cade leans against a support beam, arms crossed, while Lars checks his phone .

“Blackwood.” Tyson’s greeting carries enough edge to let me know my tardiness hasn’t gone unnoticed. “Starting to think you’d found better company than us.”

“Traffic,” I lie smoothly. The excuse is weak, but admitting the truth—that I lost track of time because I couldn’t stop touching Mira—isn’t an option.

Cade snorts. “Traffic at midnight? What kind of traffic are you running into at this hour?”

“The kind that sucks dick better than you do,” Knox cuts in before I can respond, his grin widening. “Speaking of which, how’s business been, Tyson? Still playing ringmaster to a bunch of freaks?”

“Careful,” Lars says without looking up from his phone. “Some of those freaks could snap you in half.”

Knox laughs. “I’d like to see them try.”

The familiar banter should put me at ease—this is how these deals always go. Tyson’s crew and my brothers have been dancing around each other for a few years now, testing boundaries and establishing pecking orders. It’s part of the process.

But tonight, every word feels like sandpaper against my nerves.

“Can we focus?” I snap, cutting through the testosterone-fueled posturing. “Some of us have places to be.”

Tyson raises an eyebrow. “Places to be? Xavier Blackwood turning into a homebody?”

Cade straightens up, interest sparking in his eyes. “Must be some serious pussy to make the ice king antsy.”

Heat flashes through me, violent and immediate. My hand moves toward the knife at my belt before I catch myself. The reaction is too strong, too telling.

I force my shoulders to relax, let my mouth curve into the cold smile that’s made grown men piss themselves. “You’re confusing me with someone who gives a shit about your opinion, Cade.”

He holds up his hands. “Easy there, X. Just making conversation.”

“Let’s get this deal done,” Tyson says, shooting a pointed look between Cade and me. “We’re all busy men.”

I nod, grateful for the redirect. Business. This is familiar territory that I can navigate without thinking about dark hair spread across my pillow or the way Mira whispers my name.

Knox and Lars move to opposite sides of the warehouse while Tyson opens the first crate.

Inside, neat packages wrapped in plastic gleam under the fluorescent lights.

I pull out my phone and send a quick text.

Within seconds, Cade appears from the shadows, wheeling a dolly that carries two metal cases.

“Six hundred thousand,” I say, popping the first case open. Stacks of hundreds fill the compartment, well-organized. “As agreed.”

Tyson runs his finger along one of the stacks, then nods to Cade. “Count it.”

The exchange is routine now—we’ve done this dance a dozen times. Cade counts while Knox and Lars transfer packages from crates to duffel bags. The warehouse fills with the soft rustle of plastic and paper, punctuated by Cade’s muttered numbers.

Everything’s going smoothly. Until I hear it.

The rumble of engines outside makes everyone freeze. Not the familiar growl of motorcycles.

“Expecting company?” Tyson asks, his hand moving to the gun tucked under his jacket.

“No.” My own weapon is already in my palm, safety off. Knox, Cade, and Lars mirror my stance, forming a defensive triangle around our money and drugs.

The bay door explodes inward with a screech of metal on concrete.

Three black SUVs barrel into the warehouse, their headlights cutting through the darkness like searchlights.

Men pour out of the vehicles—at least a dozen, all armed, all wearing the same dead-eyed expression that marks professional killers.