Page 37

Briar

The Vault looks different tonight.

Not just because of the people spilling out onto the street—bodies pressed together, laughter cutting through the night air—but because everything about it has transformed.

Gone is the sleek exclusivity of the place I snuck into days ago.

Tonight, the old bank building throbs with primal energy, its stone facade adorned with burning torches that cast wild, dancing shadows across the crowd.

“Still sure about this?” Damiano murmurs close to my ear as we approach, his hand firm on the small of my back.

“I’m sure,” I say, despite my racing pulse. After our argument at the cemetery, neither he nor Flint tried to talk me out of coming, but I could feel their worry when we separated—Flint heading straight to work at The Vault hours ago, Damiano taking me back to the estate to get ready .

I’d spent hours overthinking my outfit before settling on something that wouldn’t scream “notice me”: black jeans, a sheer black top over a simple camisole, boots that lend me an inch of height I don’t really need. My hair is loose, falling around my shoulders in waves that catch the torchlight.

But it’s the mask that completes the look—a delicate thing of black lace that Damiano produced from a box he brought to the estate, fitting it carefully over my eyes before we left.

“Everyone wears them,” he explained. “Not just for anonymity. It’s tradition.”

Now, as we approach the entrance, I see he wasn’t exaggerating. The crowd is a sea of masks—some elaborate like carnival creations, others simple and stark. But all transforming their wearers into something wilder, more dangerous.

We bypass the line stretching down the block, the bouncers recognizing Damiano and immediately stepping aside.

Inside, the transformation is even more dramatic.

The main room I glimpsed briefly during my previous visit has been completely redesigned.

The velvet couches are pushed against the walls, creating a vast open space in the center where bodies move to a rhythm that feels more ritual than dance.

Huge speakers pump out a beat that’s all drums and bass, vibrating through the floor and into my bones.

The lighting is blood-red, casting everyone in shades of crimson and shadow.

Smoke machines create a haze that makes the whole scene dreamlike, figures appearing and disappearing through the mist like spirits.

Above it all, aerialists in minimal black clothing perform on silks hanging from the ceiling, their bodies twisting into impossible shapes.

“Jesus,” I breathe, overwhelmed by the sensory assault.

Damiano’s arm tightens around my waist. “Still think you can handle it?”

I nod, unable to tear my eyes away from the spectacle. “It’s just... a lot.”

“And this is only the beginning,” Damiano says, scanning the crowd. “Let’s find Flint first.”

The bar area spans one entire wall of the space, crowded with masked figures clamoring for drinks.

And there’s Flint, pouring and mixing behind the counter, never missing a beat despite the chaos.

He’s wearing a simple black leather mask, making his eyes appear even more intense against the white streak in his hair.

He spots us approaching and gives a curt nod, then says something to a blue-haired bartender beside him before stepping away for a brief moment.

“You made it,” he says when he reaches us, his voice raised to be heard over the music. “How long have you been here?”

“Just arrived,” Damiano answers.

Flint observes me, taking in the outfit, the mask. “Good choice,” he says. Then, to both of us, he says, “ Remember, stay together. I can’t leave the bar much tonight—I’m understaffed, and Viktor’s watching.”

“Speaking of,” Damiano says, “have you seen him?”

“By the stage with Locke,” Flint says, already glancing back at the bar where customers are lining up. “Mari’s handling the other end if you want drinks. Gotta get back.”

“We’ll be careful,” I promise.

“You better be.” He briefly squeezes my hand before he turns and slips back behind the bar.

Damiano guides me toward the area where a bartender with electric blue hair is serving drinks. “Let’s get something to take the edge off.”

We order whiskeys, and I take the moment to really study Damiano. His mask is similar to Flint’s but with subtle botanical designs etched into the leather. It makes him look dangerous in a way that sends heat pooling inside me.

This is crazy. I came here to play my part, to show that we have nothing to hide, but now all I can think about is how hot they both look in their masks.

I glance back at Flint, now working the bar with focused intensity. Even from here, I can see how different he is in this setting—alert, commanding, exuding that dangerous energy that draws people to him. Several customers lean too far over the bar as they order, trying to get closer.

“Don’t worry,” Damiano says, noting my gaze. “ He’s used to it. People always want what they can’t have.”

I take a sip of my whiskey, grateful for something to focus on besides my jealousy. The liquor burns pleasantly, warming me from the inside out.

“Viktor at three o’clock,” Damiano says casually. “By the stage with Locke.”

I resist the urge to turn immediately, instead taking another sip of my drink before glancing casually toward the raised platform at the far end of the room.

Sure enough, Viktor stands there, deep in conversation with a sharply dressed man I assume is Locke, one of The Vault’s owners.

Viktor’s mask is bone white, a stark contrast to his all-black outfit.

“Has he seen us?” I ask.

Damiano’s hand finds my nape, his touch reassuring. “Not yet. But he will.”

“Good,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “That’s the point, right? Let him see us just enjoying ourselves, not acting suspicious.”

“Enjoying ourselves in this place is a stretch,” Damiano mutters, but there’s a hint of amusement in his tone. “Come on. Let’s mingle. Less conspicuous than huddling in a corner all night.”

We weave through the crowd, Damiano’s hand a constant presence on me—at my waist, my shoulder, the small of my back. His touch keeps me anchored as we push deeper into the heart of the party.

The scene gets wilder the further in we go.

What started as suggestive dancing near the entrance has turned into something much more intense at the center.

Bodies twist together in various stages of undress, cast in deep crimson by the blood-red lights.

A woman bent over a custom bench takes measured strikes from a man with a leather flogger, her face showing pure bliss even through her ornate mask.

Nearby, another couple performs for an eager audience, her body arched perfectly as he guides her with subtle movements of rope binding her arms.

I recognize the technique from my photography days—that’s serious suspension bondage that takes real skill. Part of me misses my camera, itching to capture the interplay of light and shadow across their bodies.

“Makes my NYU fetish photography look like child’s play,” I say to Damiano, my attention fixed on the scene. “They’re going all out.”

“Heathens night isn’t about holding back,” Damiano says, close to my ear. “It’s about peeling everything away. Shows what The Hunt really means—pure instinct over social rules.”

I drift my gaze from scene to scene, my photographer’s eye mixing with pure arousal.

On a velvet couch, a masked woman straddles a man while another woman kisses her neck.

Against a column nearby, a man pins another’s wrists above his head, their bodies pressed together in an unmistakable display of dominance and submission.

“Island bigwigs by day, absolute animals by night,” I observe, feeling heat spreading under my skin as I watch.

Damiano laughs against my ear. “The masks change everything. Amazing what people do when they think no one knows who they are.”

I lean back against him, my body responding to the charged atmosphere. There’s something about being surrounded by such raw desire, watching proper island residents transform into creatures of pure want.

He tightens his arm around my waist. “Getting to you?” he asks, deeper than before.

“Maybe,” I admit, not bothering to hide how my breathing’s quickened or how I’m pressing back against him—he can feel it all anyway.

His lips brush my ear. “We should keep moving.”

But it’s getting harder to focus on our mission.

I keep looking back to the scenes around us.

The couple with the flogger has moved on, the woman now writhing as her partner’s hands work between her legs.

On stage, performers in elaborate headdresses and nearly nothing else twist around each other in synchronized desire.

I spot Flint behind the bar, his eyes finding us through the crowd. Even from across the room, I can feel the intensity in his gaze as he watches Damiano’s hands on me. My skin flushes hot in response.

“Viktor’s watching,” Damiano says suddenly. “Don’t look now. ”

I fight the urge to turn my head. “What’s he doing?”

“Acting like he doesn’t see us while seeing everything.” Damiano slides his hand to my hip, pulling me closer in a move that’s both possessive and protective. “We need to look natural.”

“What counts as ‘natural’ in this madhouse?” I try to keep it light despite the tension coiling inside me.

He flexes his fingers against my hip. “Like we’re here for the same reason as everyone else.”

Our eyes meet and understanding passes between us. We’re supposed to be playing parts—a couple, or whatever we are, simply enjoying the wild atmosphere. But the heat in his eyes suggests this is becoming less of an act by the second.

“Dance with me.” I turn in his arms to face him.

He hesitates. “Briar?—”

“Dance with me,” I repeat, more firmly. “People are watching. We need to blend in.”