Page 127 of Haunted

“Perfect,” Xavier murmurs as I emerge from his bedroom, his gray eyes drinking in every inch of exposed flesh. “You look like sin personified.”

I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. The Mira who first walked into Purgatory would never have worn such a deliberately provocative outfit.

“Remember,” Xavier says as his driver opens the car door outside Purgatory’s main entrance, “tonight isn’tabout hiding what you’ve become. It’s about celebrating it.”

The bass thrums through the sidewalk as we approach the club’s ornate entrance. Xavier’s hand settles possessively on the small of my exposed back, his fingers tracing the chains that hold my dress together.

“Tonight is about showing you off,” he explains, his voice low and intimate despite the chaos around us. “Proving to everyone that the woman who came here to expose me and my family now belongs to me completely.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. I came here seeking a story about corruption and depravity, only to become part of the very darkness I had sought to reveal.

The bouncer recognizes Xavier immediately, stepping aside with a respectful nod. We push through the crowded main floor, where regular patrons dance and drink, completely unaware of what happens on the levels below.

These people think they’re experiencing Purgatory’s limits—the mild kink, the expensive drinks, the beautiful people grinding against each other in darkened corners. They have no idea about the Hunt, the claiming ceremonies, or the true depths of depravity that exist behind closed doors.

Xavier guides me through the writhing bodies, his hand never leaving my back. Every eye follows us, drawn by his commanding presence and the deliberate display of my exposed skin.

We reach what appears to be a service corridorhidden behind heavy curtains. Xavier presses his palm against an unmarked panel, and a section of the wall slides away to reveal a narrow staircase descending into shadows.

At the bottom, a retinal scanner bathes Xavier’s face in red light before beeping softly in recognition. Steel doors glide open with a whisper, revealing the entrance to the true Purgatory.

“Welcome home,” Xavier whispers against my ear.

The elevator descends further than I expected, my stomach dropping with each floor we pass. When the doors finally open, I step into a space that makes the Hunt’s maze look restrained.

The underground level sprawls before us like a twisted amphitheater. Themed rooms branch off from the main area—I glimpse chains and crosses through one doorway, medical equipment through another. However, everything centers around the circular stage, which dominates the space.

It’s larger than I imagined, raised high enough that every angle offers a perfect view. Even from here, I can see slots in the floor where restraints can emerge and tracks in the ceiling for suspended apparatus. The stage practically hums with possibility.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Xavier’s breath warms my ear as his hand slides along my exposed spine. “We spared no expense in creating the perfect venue for our members.”

Surrounding the stage, private booths rise in tiers like an opera house designed by the devil himself. Eachbooth features one-way glass, dark from this side but clearly offering unobstructed views of the stage.

And they’re occupied.

Silhouettes move behind the glass—some sitting, others standing, all focused on the performance space where I now understand I’ll be displayed.

“Who are they?” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the low classical music playing throughout the space.

Xavier’s laugh rumbles through his chest. “The most powerful people in Ravenwood. City council members who vote on development projects. Judges who decide criminal cases. CEOs who control half the economy.”

My blood runs cold as he continues.

“There are even journalists among them tonight. Colleagues of yours who’ve written scathing pieces about corruption while secretly indulging in it themselves.”

I scan the dark booths frantically, searching for any hint of recognition among the shadowed figures. The uncertainty creates a suffocating pressure, knowing they can see me clearly while I remain blind to their identities.

“Your former editor received an invitation,” Xavier murmurs casually. “Whether they chose to attend... well, that’s the beauty of anonymity.”

The thought that my boss might be watching from those booths makes my knees weak. The same person who praised my investigative instincts and integrity could be here to witness my complete degradation.

Xavier’s hand presses firmly against my lower back as heguides me toward a glass enclosure I hadn’t noticed before. It sits adjacent to the main stage, completely transparent on all sides—a fishbowl designed for intimate torment.

“This is where you’ll learn what it truly means to be mine,” he says.

The glass door seals behind us with a soft click that sounds impossibly final in the enclosed space. Through the transparent walls, I watch the shadowed figures in their booths shift forward, their attention now completely focused on our private theater.

Xavier circles me slowly, his gray eyes cataloging every inch of exposed skin revealed by the chains of my dress. When he reaches for a panel built into the wall, it slides open to reveal an array of implements that make my breath catch.

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