Page 13 of Haunted

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’rebrothers—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 beforeme 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?—”