Page 23

Briar

The Vault’s exterior doesn’t live up to its reputation—just an old bank building on Main Street with discreet lighting and a simple sign. No line outside, no bouncers visible—nothing to suggest what happens behind those heavy doors.

I hesitate at the entrance, aware of how stupid this plan is. What am I even doing here? I’m about to turn back when the door opens, and a couple steps out—both in designer clothes that scream money and status. They barely glance at me as they pass.

Before the door can close, I slip inside.

The entryway is a small, dimly lit space with a sleek desk. A woman with impeccable makeup and a black dress sits behind it, typing on a tablet. She looks up, her expression carefully neutral as she takes in my casual clothes.

“Membership card?”

“I don’t have one. I’m Briar Waters. ”

Her eyebrows lift slightly at my last name. “Waters? Maxwell Waters’s daughter?”

I nod, trying to project confidence I don’t feel. “I’m looking for Flint Bishop. He works here.”

She studies me for a moment, then taps something on her tablet. “One moment, Ms. Waters.”

While she makes a call, I take in the entrance. Subtle lighting, expensive art on the walls, the scent of something woodsy and expensive in the air. Everything designed to signal exclusivity.

“Flint’s working tonight,” she eventually says. “You may go in, but I should warn you that The Vault has a dress code. In the future, we’d appreciate appropriate attire.”

She gestures to a heavy door behind her, which unlocks with an audible click.

“Thank you,” I say, moving past her before she can change her mind.

The main room hits all my senses at once.

The lighting is even lower here, predominantly red and black with strategic spotlights highlighting certain areas.

Music with a heavy bass line thrums through the space.

The original bank features have been preserved—high ceilings, marble columns, and even the original vault door standing open at the far end, leading to what looks like private rooms.

What the old bank didn’t have were the plush velvet couches arranged throughout the space, or the people on them engaging in activities that make my cheeks heat.

A woman in a corset leads a man on a leash past me.

In one corner, a man in an expensive suit has a woman bent over his lap, her dress hiked up as he spanks her with what looks like a leather paddle.

Neither seems concerned about their audience.

I feel painfully out of place in my cardigan and jeans, surrounded by silk, leather, and skin. Several people glance at me with confusion or amusement before they return to their conversations or partners.

The bar stretches along one wall, black marble with soft lighting underneath.

And there’s Flint, mixing a drink with practiced movements, his attention focused on the liquid he’s pouring.

He looks different here—still in all black, but more polished.

His hair is pulled back, the white streak even more striking against the black.

He laughs at something a customer says, and I’m struck by how rarely I’ve seen him smile.

I make my way toward him, acutely aware of every step. A couple moves past me, the woman’s hand tucked into the back pocket of her partner’s leather pants. On a nearby couch, two women kiss deeply while a man watches, his hand resting possessively on one woman’s thigh.

By the time I reach the bar, my heart is racing. This was a terrible idea.

Flint sees me before I can speak, his easy smile vanishing into shock, then anger. He finishes serving his customer, then moves down the bar to where I stand.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His question is low but intense.

“I need to talk to you.”

“This isn’t a coffee shop, Briar. You can’t just drop by.”

“It seemed important enough to risk it.” I glance around at the club. “Besides, my last name got me in the door easily enough.”

His jaw tightens. “Wait here. Don’t move.”

He speaks to a woman with blue hair working further down the bar, who nods and takes over his section. Then he’s beside me, his hand firm on my elbow as he guides me away from the main area.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Somewhere we can talk without you getting propositioned every five seconds. You’re practically wearing a sign that says ‘fresh meat.’”

He leads me through a door marked “Staff Only” into a small office that features a desk with a computer, filing cabinets, and a worn couch against one wall. He closes the door behind us, muffling the music from the main room.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demands, crossing his arms. “Coming here, tonight of all nights, when Viktor’s men are watching everything.”

“I was careful. No one followed me.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I needed information about The Hunt. Mrs. Fletcher told me people use the maze during it, and that there may be one for the summer equinox. ”

“Okay… So because of that you decided to waltz into the island’s most exclusive sex club wearing a grandma cardigan?” He runs a hand through his hair, dislodging some strands from the tie. “You could have called.”

“You don’t exactly seem like a phone conversation kind of guy.” I move further into the room, needing space from his intensity. “And I’m not a child. I can go where I want.”

“No, you’re just the woman who killed someone two days ago.

” His voice drops even lower. “The woman whose property is being searched by the victim’s brother.

The woman who should be home establishing her innocence by lying low, not wandering into a den of gossips who’d sell their mothers for the right price. ”

“I’m also the woman whose property is going to be overrun by people during The Hunt,” I snap back. “People who might find what we buried. I need to know exactly what to expect and when.”

He sighs, some of the anger draining from him. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Everything. When it will happen. How many people. How to keep them out of certain areas.”

“You can’t keep them out. That’s the point of The Hunt. No boundaries, no rules once it starts.”

“There have to be some rules.”

“Sure.” He leans against the desk. “The woman consents by putting out the red bulb. She wears white, goes barefoot. The man wears the mask, does the whistle. After that?” He shrugs. “It’s primal. That’s why people do it.”

“And they use the maze?”

“It’s one of the favorite spots. Hidden, complex. The thrill of the chase.”

I try to imagine it—people running through the hedges at night, the masked hunters pursuing. All of them potentially stumbling over a fresh grave.

“We need to move him,” I say.

“Not an option. Too risky.”

“More risky than someone literally tripping over his body?”

“We buried him deep, with plants that mask the scent. The dogs couldn’t find him today. Hunters won’t either.”

“You can’t know that for sure.” I step closer to him, frustration building. “This isn’t just your problem. It’s my property. My party. My hands that—” I’m unable to finish.

His expression shifts, anger giving way to something more complex. “I know, but moving him now, with Viktor watching everything? That’s suicide.”

“So we just hope for the best? Hope no one notices the freshly turned earth or the new plants?”

“The maze has been there for decades. Tourists and locals have been screwing in it for just as long. No one’s going to question one more patch of dirt.”

“That’s not good enough.” I move even closer, challenging him. “I need a better plan than ‘hope no one notices.’”

“Well, that’s all we’ve got right now, princess.” The nickname comes out sharp-edged. “Unless you’ve got some brilliant idea you’re not sharing.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What? Princess?” He smirks. “Isn’t that what you are? Daddy’s little girl, used to getting her way, thinks she can just walk into anywhere?—”

“You don’t know me at all.”

“No?” He narrows his eyes. “I know you well enough. Rich girl looking for a thrill, slumming it with the hired help. First Damiano, now showing up here.” He steps closer. “Was that your plan? Work your way through the island’s bad boys for a little vacation excitement?”

“That’s not?—”

“You seemed pretty comfortable letting the gardener fuck you last night. Didn’t take you long to come looking for me next, did it?”

The words hit like a physical blow. I see the regret in his eyes immediately, like he knows he’s gone too far, but it doesn’t matter. I slap him. Not hard, more a reflex than an attack, but the sound seems to echo in the small room.

For a second, we both freeze. Then something shifts in his eyes.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“No.” My hand stings. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Any of this. ”

“Join the club.”

We’re standing too close now, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of whiskey on his breath, see the small scar near his jawline. He drops his gaze to my mouth for a second.

“I should go,” I say, not moving.

“Yeah, you should.” He doesn’t move either.

I’m not sure who leans in first. Maybe me. Maybe him. Maybe both of us at the same time, drawn together by the same reckless impulse that’s been pushing me since I returned to this island.

His mouth is firm against mine, nothing gentle about this kiss. It’s all heat and frustration as he brings up his hands to tangle in my hair while I grip the front of his shirt. He tastes like whiskey and bad decisions, and I want more of both.

He backs me against the desk, lifting me onto it in one fluid movement. I part my legs automatically, allowing him to press closer, and he slides his hands under my cardigan, warm against my skin as they trace up my sides.

This is insane. Last night I was with Damiano, and now I’m kissing Flint like I’ll die if I stop. But it feels right somehow, part of the same dangerous current pulling all three of us together.