Page 42

“People at The Vault saw us together,” Briar adds, understanding dawning in her eyes. “They saw how we were with each other in that private room. It’s not a stretch to think we’d have our own Hunt.

She’s right. Half the island knows about my history with Damiano, how we’ve always liked it rough. The marks on his throat could easily be explained by choking during sex—we’ve both sported worse marks in public before.

“Your face, though,” I say to Briar, reaching out to gently touch her split lip.

“Things got intense,” she says with a shrug that’s too casual to be real. “First Hunt. We got carried away. I fell during the chase, hit my face on a rock. If anyone asks, I’ll say I loved every minute of it.”

There’s a darkness in her eyes that tells me part of her hates this story—hates reducing what we have together to something so base, so primitive.

But she’s right. It’s the perfect cover.

The island thrives on gossip, and nothing travels faster than news of a sexual scandal involving the Waters family.

“The three of us had our own Hunt while Viktor had his accident elsewhere in the maze,” Damiano summarizes. “We never saw him, never heard him. Too caught up in our own... activities.”

The plan is solid. Explains our visible injuries. Keeps us far from Viktor’s death. And most importantly, it’s believable because it’s built on what people already think they know about us.

“And let’s be honest,” I add, thinking ahead. “The island police aren’t exactly known for their investigative prowess. They’re going to do the bare minimum.”

Damiano nods in agreement. “Island business is handled by islanders. Always has been. It’s why nobody ever really looked into Erik’s disappearance.”

“And Viktor? Will anyone really investigate?” Briar searches our faces.

“Viktor was the last of the Bastian brothers,” Damiano says. “There’s no one left to push for answers.”

“Some might suspect,” I add, “but no one will say it out loud. That’s how this island works.”

“Viktor had enemies everywhere,” Damiano continues. “He was feared, not loved. I’ve heard the Vault staff talk—half of them have scars from his ‘disciplinary actions.’”

“And the other half were waiting for their turn,” I say bitterly. “Trust me, there will be relief more than grief when the news spreads.”

Briar looks between us. “So even if someone connects the dots...”

“They’ll keep it to themselves,” I finish for her. “No one’s going to be the hero who speaks up for Viktor Bastian.”

Damiano’s lips twist into something between a grimace and a smile. “The island has its own justice system. Always has. Some might even see this as... karmic.”

“It’s perfect. Get back to the house,” I tell Briar. “Clean up, get into bed. Look like you’ve been thoroughly fucked and fell asleep exhausted if anyone checks.” I turn to Damiano. “You go with her, make sure she’s okay. I’ll stay here and make the call once you’re clear.”

Damiano hesitates. “Flint?—”

“Go,” I cut him off. “I’m the one who killed him. I should be the one to see this through.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods. “We need to wash off in the greenhouse first. Can’t risk the house. Too many surfaces, too much evidence.”

I watch as Damiano leads Briar out of the maze to his place, her white nightgown ghostly in the darkness. The two people I care about most in this fucked-up world—yes, I can admit that now, standing over the body of the man I just killed to protect them.

Once they’re gone, I kneel beside Viktor one last time. His eyes are open, staring sightlessly at the night sky. I close them with two fingers, not out of respect but because it looks more like an accident that way.

“You would have killed us all,” I tell his corpse. “Maybe you still will.”

I take one final look around, making sure everything is in place, all evidence of our presence erased. Then I walk out of the maze, taking a different path than Damiano and Briar. I need distance, need to establish myself somewhere public before making the call.

I head to the road, walking back toward town. My clothes are stained but not obviously with blood. Could be anything. Dirt. Grease. My hands are clean enough now. I scrubbed them in a puddle that had formed at the edge of the property. Not perfect, but it will do until I can get to a proper sink.

About half a mile from Windward estate, I pull out my phone. The one I use for work, not the one with all our texts about covering up Liam. I dial the island police, my voice steady when they answer.

“I want to report something,” I say, disguising my tone slightly.

“I was up near Windward Estate, the Waters place? Saw someone in one of those Hunt masks stumbling around the maze during my own Hunt. Looked pretty wasted. Just wanted to let someone know. People shouldn’t be wandering around there drunk. Private property and all.”

I hang up before they can ask questions. The call serves its purpose—draws attention to the maze without mentioning any screams that would contradict our accident story. Let the police find him by “coincidence” while checking the property based on a vague tip about trespassers.

The fog swallows me as I continue walking, heading back to The Vault where I’m supposed to be working. I need to establish my alibi, be seen by others. My mind is already constructing the story—I stepped out for air, the party was too intense tonight, needed a break from the Heathens madness.

Behind me, Windward estate stands dark and silent, its secrets multiplying beneath the moonlight. Another night, another Bastian brother. Will this be the last one? Or are we caught in some sick cycle that will keep playing out until there’s nothing left of any of us?

I don’t know. But what I do know is that I’d do it again, kill Viktor all over again, if it meant keeping Damiano and Briar safe. The thought should scare me, but instead, it settles something inside me—a certainty I haven’t felt in years.