Page 39

Briar

The hot water cascades over my shoulders, washing away the sweat, the smoke, and the lingering scent of whiskey from The Vault. But nothing can wash away the memory of being sandwiched between Damiano and Flint, the feeling of them both inside me, claiming me completely.

The drive home was quiet, Damiano’s hand resting on my thigh, both of us still reeling from what happened. When he dropped me off at the estate, his kiss was tender—so different from the hungry, desperate ones we shared at The Vault.

“Lock the doors,” he reminded me. “And stay inside. The Hunt starts tonight.”

The Hunt. The island’s darkest tradition, about to unfold in the woods surrounding Windward Estate.

I step out of the shower, wrapping a fluffy towel around myself. Through the bathroom window, I can see fog settling over the grounds, thick and ghostly in the moonlight. Perfect Hunt weather, according to island lore.

I pad to my bedroom, towel-drying my hair as I go. The house feels too big, too empty without Mrs. Fletcher’s presence. The silence wraps around me like another layer of fog, broken only by the occasional creak of old wood expanding and contracting.

After moisturizing—my skin always dries out painfully in the island air—I slip into silk pajama shorts and a matching camisole. But as I’m about to climb into bed, something catches my eye through the window.

A red glow.

I move closer to the glass, peering out into the darkness. There it is—a red light bulb glowing softly above the front porch.

My heart skips. I didn’t put that there. Didn’t sign up to be “prey” in tonight’s Hunt.

But I know who did.

Damiano. Or Flint.

A smile tugs at my lips despite myself. So they want to play Hunt games, do they? After what we shared at The Vault, this feels like the natural next step in our twisted island romance.

I hesitate for only a moment before moving to my closet. If they’ve gone to the trouble of setting this up, I might as well play along. At the back of the closet, I find what I’m looking for—a white nightgown like the one I wore to my party, the night this all began. The night Liam died.

It’s strangely fitting to wear it again, for this dark island ritual.

I slip it over my head, the soft fabric floating around my body like mist. The collar dips low, exposing my collarbones, and the hem falls just below my knees—modest compared to the barely-there gowns I saw on some women at The Vault.

According to tradition, I should be barefoot. I kick off my slippers and glance at myself in the full-length mirror. With my hair loose around my shoulders and the white gown against my pale skin, I look like a ghost. Beautiful, but spectral. Perfect for The Hunt.

Do I grab a coat? No, that would ruin the aesthetic. Besides, if everything goes according to plan, I won’t be cold for long. Either Damiano or Flint—or perhaps both—will catch me, and then...

The thought sends heat rushing through me. After tonight at The Vault, I can only imagine what they have planned.

I make my way downstairs, the hardwood floor cool beneath my bare feet. I unlock the heavy front door and step onto the porch. The red light casts everything in a bloody glow, transforming the familiar entrance into something sinister.

The night air hits me immediately, cold and damp with fog. I wrap my arms around myself, already shivering, but determined to play this game .

The protocol, from what I’ve gathered, is to wait. The hunter initiates with a whistle, and then the chase begins. So I wait, standing beneath the red light, exposed and vulnerable in my white gown.

Minutes pass. The fog grows thicker, curling around my ankles like ghost hands trying to pull me into the earth. I’m about to give up, to decide this was some kind of mistake, when a low whistle carries on the wind. Three notes, rising in pitch, then falling—the signal.

My pulse quickens. So they really are doing this.

I peer into the darkness, trying to spot my pursuer. There—a figure at the edge of the property, just where the manicured lawn meets the wild forest. I can’t discern details through the fog, only a silhouette wearing what appears to be the traditional stag mask.

The figure whistles again, the same eerie three notes. Then it starts moving toward me.

Something about the way it moves seems off. Not quite like Damiano’s fluid grace or Flint’s predatory swagger. This gait is different, more mechanical, purposeful.

I take a step back, then another. The figure keeps coming, picking up speed.

This isn’t right. This isn’t them.

Fear surges through me as the masked figure breaks into a run, heading straight for the porch where I stand, frozen with indecision.

I don’t think, I move, leaping off the porch and running around the side of the house. My bare feet sink into the wet grass, slipping slightly as I sprint toward the garden.

Behind me, heavy footsteps are gaining ground. Whoever this is, they’re fast.

The maze. If I can reach the maze, I might lose them in its twisting paths. And the greenhouse is just beyond—if I can reach Damiano...

I change direction, heading for the maze entrance. My nightgown billows around my legs, the fog swirling with each step I take. My lungs burn with the exertion, my condition making itself known at the worst possible moment.

The whistle comes again, closer now. Three notes, but sharper, more urgent.

I reach the maze entrance and plunge into the darkness between the high hedges. Immediately, shadows so dense they feel solid swallow me. No moonlight penetrates here, and I have to run with my hands outstretched, feeling my way forward.

Left turn, right turn, straight ahead. I try to remember the path to the center, to where we buried Liam. From there, I know the way to the greenhouse, but in the darkness, with fear clouding my mind, every path looks the same.

My pursuer crashing through the hedge maze echoes behind me. He’s not bothering with the paths, simply pushing straight through the foliage, taking the most direct route .

I take another turn, then another, panic rising as I realize I’ve completely lost my bearings. Have I been here before? Are these the same hedges I just passed?

My foot catches on an exposed root, and I go down hard, my knees hitting gravel. Pain shoots up my legs, but I scramble back up, ignoring the sting. I can’t stop. Can’t let him catch me.

I take another turn and find myself in a small clearing. Moonlight breaks through the fog here, illuminating a stone bench. I’ve reached the center of the maze.

And buried beneath this peaceful scene lies Liam Bastian’s decomposing body.

For a sick moment, I wonder if it’s Viktor behind the mask. If he’s somehow figured it out, if this is his revenge.

I don’t have time to dwell on it. I need to get to the greenhouse, to Damiano.

I scan the clearing, trying to remember which path leads out toward the back of the property. There—that narrow opening between two particularly tall hedges. That’s the exit, the one that leads to the greenhouse.

I start toward it, but I’m too slow. The masked figure bursts into the clearing behind me, blocking my escape.

In the dim moonlight, I can finally see him clearly. Black hoodie pulled up over the stag mask, obscuring any identifying features. He stands perfectly still for a moment, breath coming in harsh gasps through the mask.

“Please,” I say, backing away slowly. “I didn’t put up that light. I’m not part of this.”

He tilts his head, studying me. Then he steps forward, reaching for me.

I turn to run, but a hand catches my arm, yanking me back with enough force to make me gasp. His grip is iron, fingers digging into my flesh.

“Let me go!” I thrash, trying to break free, but he only tightens his hold, pulling me against him.

His other hand moves toward my face. I flinch, expecting a blow, but instead, he traces a finger down my cheek, the touch almost gentle.

“Who are you?” I demand as I shake with fear and rage. “What do you want?”

The masked figure leans in close, his breath hot through the mask. And then he speaks, voice muffled but unmistakably familiar.

“You really should have stayed away from The Vault tonight, Briar Waters.”

My blood turns to ice.

This isn’t Damiano or Flint.

This isn’t a game.

And I’ve just been caught.

“Viktor.” The name falls from my lips, a horrified whisper.

He reaches up, pulling the stag mask off to reveal his face, pale and hard in the moonlight. His eyes glitter with something dangerous as he tosses the mask aside.

“The one and only,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “Funny how history repeats itself, isn’t it? You in that white dress, in this maze, just like the night my brother disappeared.”

I try to back away, but his grip on my arm tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t insult me.” His fingers dig deeper, sure to leave bruises. “I watched you tonight at The Vault, looking so cozy with our resident gardener and bartender. Quite the trio you three make.”

My mind races. How much does he know? How much is he guessing?

“Let me go.” I try to sound stronger than I feel. “This isn’t part of The Hunt. I didn’t volunteer for this.”

Viktor’s laugh is sharp and mirthless. “But I put the red light on your porch myself. Special invitation.” He pulls me closer, his breath hot on my face. “I thought we should have a private chat about my brother.”

“I told you before, I barely knew him. He was at my party, that’s all.”

“And then he vanished.” Viktor’s free hand slides to my waist, fingers digging into the thin fabric of my nightgown. “Some of my friends told me they saw him following you that night. Into this maze. And he was never seen again.”

My blood turns to ice. People saw us. Of course they did. A party full of strangers, all of them potential witnesses.

“Maybe he left the island,” I suggest weakly. “Found a tourist to go home with.”