Page 7

The entry hall is packed with strangers, voices overlapping as they shout over the music.

Crystal decanters from the Waters family collection have been arranged on a table, filled with various liquors, alongside buckets of ice and mixers.

Self-serve, like Briar couldn’t afford actual bartenders.

Or maybe she wanted it casual, more like the college parties she probably missed during all those years of treatments.

I grab a bottle of water, ignoring the alcohol. Got to stay sharp tonight.

The great room has been completely transformed, with furniture pushed against walls, artwork covered with dark fabric to protect it from the growing crowd.

The antique Persian rug her grandmother loved has been rolled up and replaced with something cheaper, meant to soak up spilled drinks and survive the night. Smart move.

The bar grows more crowded with each passing minute, alcohol dissolving boundaries.

The room temperature spikes from too many bodies in too small a space, turning the atmosphere thick and charged with unspoken intentions.

Already, the island’s social layers are forming, with rich summer people by the fireplace, local business owners near the windows, harbor workers and service staff hanging near the food tables.

Invisible lines everyone just knows not to cross.

Except for Briar. She moves between groups, introducing people with the ease of someone who doesn’t understand or doesn’t care about the island’s social boundaries. Her face is flushed, eyes bright. She looks alive in a way I haven’t seen since she got here. Something tugs in my chest.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

I turn to find Flint beside me, holding a glass of something amber.

A bone-white mask hangs loosely around his neck, the strap twisted carelessly like he couldn’t be bothered to wear it right.

His white streak stands out even more against his black clothing, like he’s trying to channel some comic book villain. Always so damn dramatic.

“Someone needs to keep an eye on things.” I keep my voice flat.

His laugh is dry and bitter. “Right. Playing bodyguard to the rich girl already? That was fast.” His gaze shifts to Briar, who’s talking animatedly with a group of locals. “She’s not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Another trust fund princess slumming it for kicks.” He shrugs. “She seems... genuine.”

“She’s sick.” The words come out harder than intended. “Don’t get any ideas.”

He raises his eyebrow, silver piercing catching the light. “Jealous already? That was fast, even for you.”

I turn away, not giving him the satisfaction of a response. This conversation is heading nowhere good, and I need to focus .

Across the room, Liam Bastian has cornered Briar by the drink table.

Even from here, I can see her body language change, shoulders tensing, smile going rigid.

Liam leans in closer than necessary, brushing her arm with his hand as he talks, playing Mr. Charming when everyone on this island knows what he’s really about.

The contrast between his dark clothes and Briar’s white dress makes them look like predator and prey already playing their roles.

“Looks like someone’s getting an early start on The Hunt,” Flint mutters, following my gaze. “Bastian’s been talking big at The Vault about adding a Waters to his collection. Said white would look real good on her, especially when she’s running barefoot through the maze.”

I clench my jaw, tracking the movement across the room. Liam Bastian has his hand lower on Briar’s back than it has any right to go.

“Better go save your princess.” Flint tips his glass toward the scene. “Before Bastian gets ideas.”

“She’s not my—” No point playing this game with Flint. “Why are you even here?”

He smirks, finishing his drink in one smooth motion. “Free booze, good music, chance to see how the rich half lives.” His eyes lock with mine. “Plus, I figured you’d be lurking around, guarding your territory.”

“She’s not territory.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He steps closer, his voice dropping. “That’s your thing, isn’t it? Finding broken stuff to fix? Like those plants you’re always fussing over.”

I keep my eyes on Briar, who’s extracting herself from Liam’s conversation. “You didn’t seem to mind my ‘thing’ last night.”

“Last night was different.” His voice has an edge now. “Last night didn’t involve you playing hero to Maxwell Waters’ little girl.”

Something in his tone pulls my attention away from Briar. Flint’s eyes are hard, glittering with something that looks like genuine anger.

“You’re jealous,” I say, the realization hitting me. “That’s what this is about?”

He scoffs. “Of her? Please. I just hate watching you fall into the same toxic patterns.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“At least I know what I am.” He steps closer, just shy of touching me, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. “I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.”

The scent of him, whiskey and that cedar cologne he’s worn forever, hits me with a wave of memories from last night. His back against the wall of The Vault’s storage room. My hands pinning his wrists above his head. His breathless laugh when I told him I hated him.

I push away the images. “I’m not pretending anything.”

“Sure you are. Playing garden boy during the day, dealing your special herbs by night.” He smiles, all teeth and venom. “Then there’s what you do during Hunt season. The stuff you don’t want anyone to know about. Especially not your new pet project up at the big house.”

I move my hand before I can stop myself, grabbing his wrist hard enough to make him wince. “Don’t.”

Instead of pulling away, he leans in, his mouth almost touching my ear. “What? You don’t want me telling your new project about last night? About what you do with that tongue when you think no one’s watching?”

I release him like touching him burns. “This isn’t the place.”

“Never is with you.” He rubs his wrist where my fingers left marks. “But we always end up in the same place anyway, don’t we?”

Across the room, I catch sight of Briar again.

She’s looking our way, her expression curious.

Concerned, maybe. At the same time, I notice Liam Bastian watching her from the hallway that leads to the library.

Something in his stance makes my skin crawl, predatory, calculating.

Like he’s already picturing her in white, running through the maze, waiting for his whistle in the dark.

Jesus, this is all too much. I fucking hate parties. Hate people. Hate all of this.

“I need to check the grounds,” I say, turning away from Flint.

“Running away again? Typical.” His laugh follows me. “Tell you what, I’ll keep an eye on your girl while you’re gone. Make sure Liam doesn’t get any ideas about starting Hunt season early.”

I pause, looking back at him.

He gestures toward the door. “Go brood in your garden or whatever you need to do.”

The party feels claustrophobic, too many bodies, too much noise. I slip through the crowd, ignoring the few people who try to stop me for conversation. Outside, the fog has grown even thicker, muffling the sounds from the house. The terrace lights create hazy halos in the mist.

I breathe deeply, letting the damp air clear my head. This thing with Flint, it’s like a disease. Has been for years. We crash into each other, tear each other apart, then walk away until we inevitably collide again.

Never healing. Never changing.

The maze calls to me, a perfect symbol of my life.

Complicated. Designed to confuse. Only navigable if you know the secret paths, the real ways through.

The Waters maze has been a favorite hunting ground for generations.

I’ve lost count of how many women I’ve seen fleeing through its hedges during The Hunt, their white nightgowns glowing in the darkness, their pursuers’ whistles echoing off stone.

I follow the gravel path, the noise from the party fading with each step. The high hedges part before me, welcoming me into their shadowed embrace. Even in near-darkness, I know every turn, every junction. This place feels more like home than the greenhouse ever has.

At the first intersection, I pause. The mist swirls around my ankles, clinging to the fabric of my jeans.

Somewhere nearby, an owl calls, once, twice, then silence.

Waiting for an answer that never comes. The sound reminds me too much of The Hunt’s whistle pattern. Maybe that’s why it puts me on edge.

I should check the center, make sure everything is secure for tomorrow’s work. This section needs trimming before the fog causes too much moisture damage. These are the excuses I give myself, but the truth is simpler: I needed to get away from Flint before I did something stupid.

Again.

“You always did love this fucking maze.”

His voice comes from behind me, startling in the stillness. I don’t turn around.

“Go back to the party, Flint.”

“And leave you out here sulking? What kind of friend would that make me?”

“We’re not friends.” The words come out automatically, a script we’ve been following for years.

He moves closer. I can feel his presence, the heat of him in the cold mist. “No, we’re not.”