Page 6 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)

XAVIER

T he security feeds cast a blue glow over the room as I lean forward, eyes locked on monitor three. Twenty-three hours and seventeen minutes since I handed Mira that envelope. Not that I’m counting.

She moves between tables, smiling at customers and writing down drink orders since they’re short-staffed. Nothing in her demeanor suggests a woman grappling with a life-altering decision. Just business as usual.

I tap my finger against the desk. The invitation to the Hunt is the ultimate test—one that separates those who crave darkness from those who merely flirt with its edges.

And here she stands, unruffled, as if what I offered was a casual dinner invitation rather than entry into Ravenwood Hollow’s most exclusive and taboo event.

My phone lights up. Another message from Knox about preparations. I dismiss it without reading it. Right now, all that matters is the stubborn journalist pretending to be just another bartender. What game is she playing? Does she think refusing to acknowledge my invitation gives her power?

The door behind me swings open, flooding the dim room with light. I don’t turn around.

“Why the fuck are you hiding in the security room?”

Vane’s voice cuts through my concentration. I can feel his presence without looking—restless energy crackling like static electricity.

“I’m not hiding.” My eyes remain fixed on the screen where Mira laughs at something a customer said. “I’m observing.”

Vane moves closer, following my gaze to the monitor. His lips curl into a knowing smirk.

“The reporter?” He leans against the desk, deliberately positioning himself between me and the screen. “You gave her the invitation, didn’t you? Against Knox’s advice.”

I lean back, meeting my brother’s cutting gaze. “Since when do you care about Knox’s advice?”

“I don’t.” Vane’s gaze flickers to the monitor again. “But I do care when my brother becomes obsessed with a woman who’s trying to destroy us.”

“I don’t obsess over anything or anyone,” I say, my voice level despite the irritation building. “I know exactly what I’m doing with Mira Sullivan.”

Vane snorts, folding his arms across his chest. “Right. Because watching a woman on security cameras for—” he glances at the timestamp in the corner of the screen, “— Jesus, has it been over an hour? That’s totally normal, balanced behavior.”

“I’m assessing a potential liability.” I shift in my chair, irritated that he’s caught me assessing her this way. “The Hunt is two weeks away. I need to know if she’s going to sign those papers.”

“If stalking security screens like some fucking loser isn’t an obsession, I don’t know what the fuck is.” Vane leans closer to the monitor, studying her with exaggerated interest. “Though I will admit, she is easy on the eyes.”

My hand shoots out, gripping his wrist hard enough to make him wince.

“Watch how you speak to me,” I warn. “I’m still the one who makes the decisions in this family. And keep your eyes away from her, got it?”

Vane yanks his arm free, but his eyes gleam with amusement rather than anger. “Touchy, touchy. Guess I hit a nerve?” He rubs his wrist dramatically. “The great Xavier Blackwood, brought low by a pretty girl with more courage than sense.”

I stand, forcing him to take a step back. “You’re walking a dangerous line.”

“Always do.” He grins, unbothered by my show of dominance. “But seriously, X, this surveillance shit is beneath you. Either she signs or she doesn’t. You’ve got better things to do than watch her serve drinks to drunken idiots.”

I growl softly, the sound rumbling deep in my chest. Vane’s ability to hit every raw nerve has always been his most irritating talent, one I’d considered beating out of him more than once over the years.

“You know what your problem is, X?” Vane leans against the desk, clearly enjoying how much he’s getting under my skin.

“You’re not the kind of guy who hides out in security rooms watching screens.

You’re Xavier fucking Blackwood.”He gestures toward the monitor where Mira continues her shift.

“Go speak to her. Ask her if she’s decided. Simple.”

I narrow my eyes, feeling a surge of annoyance at his presumption. “And look desperate? Is that your expert advice? I gave her time to consider her options. Rushing her suggests I care about her answer.”

“Sitting here for an hour staring at security footage suggests you care a hell of a lot more than just asking her directly.” Vane’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “Face it, brother. You’re already desperate. Might as well own it.”

“I’m calculating risk,” I snap, straightening my jacket. “Something you might try sometime instead of acting on every impulse that crosses your mind.”

Vane laughs obnoxiously. “God, you’re so full of shit. Pretending you’re not completely fixated on some reporter who’s probably planning to find a way to put you behind bars for life.”

“Fuck off, Vane,” I say, but there’s a lightness in my tone that wasn’t there moments ago.

Despite his infuriating ability to see through my bullshit, he’s right.

And though I’d rather cut out my tongue than admit it, watching Mira through cameras when I could simply demand an answer is beneath me.

We’re brothers—we push each other’s buttons, but we also keep each other in check when needed.

“I’m going out there.” I adjust my cufflinks, a habit when I’m recalibrating. “She’s had enough time to consider her options.”

Vane’s grin widens, victorious. “About fucking time. I was starting to think you’d lost your edge.”

I shoot him a warning glance that would make most men cower. Vane merely chuckles.

“One more thing,” I say, pausing at the door. “Stay out of this. The reporter is my project.”

“Project?” Vane raises an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

I won’t dignify that with a response, pushing past him and stepping into the hallway. The thrum of bass from the club grows louder as I move toward the main floor, each step measured and deliberate.

The cold calculation that normally guides my every move feels compromised. I’m not accustomed to uncertainty, especially not over a woman who should be nothing more than a minor inconvenience to eliminate. Yet here I am, prowling toward the bar like a predator with a single target in my sight.

Mira hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s mixing a drink, concentration furrowing her brow as she measures the liquor. The sight of her—completely in her element despite being so far out of her depth—ignites something in me that I refuse to acknowledge.

I push through the crowd, employees parting before me like water around a stone. Fear and respect create a path that leads directly to her.

It’s time to get an answer. Time to find out if Mira Sullivan has what it takes to survive the Hunt—or if she’ll become just another casualty of her ambition.

Mira has her back to me, mixing some complicated cocktails. When she turns and spots me, her composure slips—just for a second—eyes widening before she schools her features back into professional neutrality.

“Good evening, Mr. Blackwood.” Her voice is formal as if we’re nothing more than employer and employee. Not for long.

“Cut the crap,” I say, leaning against the bar. “Have you made your decision about my invitation or not?”

A flicker of something—amusement?—crosses her face. “I put my response in your office inbox when I arrived for my shift this afternoon.”

Heat flashes through me. My inbox? Like I’m some fucking middle manager who collects memos and expense reports? The casual dismissal in her approach ignites a slow-burning anger in my chest.

“And why didn’t you find me directly?” I keep my voice controlled despite the irritation coursing through me. “An invitation like that warrants a face-to-face conversation, don’t you think?”

Mira continues wiping down the bar, movements deliberate, unhurried. “I didn’t think it was necessary to disturb you for something so simple.”

Simple.

“Did you agree?” I demand, patience evaporating. “Yes or no?”

She looks up then, hazel eyes meeting mine with unexpected boldness. A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth.

“Why don’t you take a look and find out?”

Something snaps inside me. The calculated restraint I pride myself on fractures in the face of her defiance. Before I can think better of it, I’m around the bar, backing her against the counter. She doesn’t cower or retreat; she just tilts her chin up, breath quickening as I invade her space.

“You think this is a game?” I growl, aware of the sudden hush that has fallen over our immediate vicinity, as other employees freeze in place and customers watch with wide eyes. I don’t care. Let them see. Let them whisper about how Xavier Blackwood corners a bartender like a man possessed.

Mira’s lips curve into a defiant smile, her eyes flashing with challenge rather than fear.

“Isn’t that exactly what the Hollow’s Hunt is? A game?” Her voice carries just enough volume for nearby patrons to hear—a deliberate move that makes my blood simmer.

Grabbing her hand, I drag her away from the bar and down the staff hallway toward the staff room, pushing her against the wall.

“What are you?—”

I slide my hand behind her neck, silencing her immediately, fingers pressing firmly enough against her nape to command her attention. Leaning in until my lips nearly brush her ear, I feel her pulse quicken beneath my touch.

“Let me explain what you’re really signing up for,” I whisper, my voice low enough that only she can hear.

“The Hunt isn’t some childish competition.

It’s primal. Raw.” My thumb traces small circles at the base of her skull.

“You’ll be prey, Miss Sullivan. One of five women who will run, hide, and eventually be caught. ”

I feel her breath catch, but she doesn’t pull away.

“And the hunters?” I continue, lips grazing her earlobe.

“Fifteen masked men, including myself, who will track you through every inch of the back rooms of this club.” I maintain my grip on her nape, keeping her locked in place as I speak directly into her ear.

“Whichever man catches you first stakes his claim on you. He can do whatever he wants with you. Fuck you, pass you around, decide exactly how to use you, and you have no say in the matter.”

Her sharp intake of breath is unmistakable. I pull back just enough to see her face, curious about what I’ll find there. Fear? Disgust? The expected outrage of a woman told she’d be nothing more than a sexual object for the duration of the Hunt?

What I see instead makes my grip tighten involuntarily. Her pupils are dilated, lips slightly parted. There’s fear there, yes—but also something else that makes her cheeks flush and her breathing quicken.

“That wasn’t in the NDA,” she whispers, but there’s no accusation in her tone. Just a breathless quality that betrays her far more than she realizes.

“The NDA covers confidentiality.” I allow my thumb to trace the line of her jaw. “Not the specifics of what happens during the Hunt itself. Those rules are... unwritten.”

Her eyes never leave mine, searching my face as if trying to determine if I’m bluffing. I’m not. The Hunt has always been about power, dominance, and satisfaction. No matter what she expects, the reality will be far more intense than her mind could imagine.

“Is that why you invited me? So you could claim me yourself?”

Her question hangs in the air between us—bold, direct, and far too perceptive.

I let the silence stretch, watching the way her breath catches as she waits for my answer. Power resides in withholding what others desperately seek, and right now, Mira is seeking confirmation of something she’s already figured out. I won’t give her that satisfaction.

Instead, I allow a slow smile to spread across my face, one that reveals nothing while suggesting everything.

“If your signed NDA is sitting in my office mailbox, waiting for me,” I say, letting my fingers trail away from her neck. “You’ve already made your decision. The real question is whether you truly understand what you’ve agreed to.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, that clever mind working overtime behind them. I can almost see her cataloging my response, noting my evasion.

“I can’t wait for the Hunt, Miss Sullivan.” I lean closer, just enough to watch her pupils dilate again. “Your expression tells me everything I need to know. You want me to catch you.”

A flush rises from her neck to her cheeks, and anger and determination swirl in her eyes. Her brow furrows in irritation—the little crease between her eyebrows is surprisingly adorable on a woman who thinks she can take me on at my own game.

“You don’t know what I want,” she whispers, defiance evident in every syllable.

“I know enough.” I take a deliberate step back, straightening my jacket. “Two weeks, Miss Sullivan. Prepare yourself—though I doubt anything could truly prepare you for what’s coming.”

The frustration radiating from her as I turn away is palpable, a tangible force at my back. I don’t look back as I weave through the crowd, already picturing her signature on that NDA, binding her to silence about everything she witnesses and experiences.

Let her sit with the doubt. Let her try to guess what I’ll do next. The game’s won—she just hasn’t realized it yet.