Page 8 of Haunted

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 whatMira 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 corruptionin 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 betweenexposing 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 loosenedhis 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?”