Page 28 of Haunted

“The Hunt is in two days. You think your journalist is ready to be prey, X?”

The temporary freedom of the ride evaporates, replaced by the weight of what’s coming. Two wildcards in a game where I’ve meticulously stacked the deck.

“She doesn’t know what she’s walking into,” Vane observes, eyes fixed on the city below. “None of them do.”

I watch my brothers as they stand silently beside me, the city of Ravenwood laid out like a glittering chessboard below us. Knox’s question about Mira hangs in the air between us, demanding an answer I’m not sure I have.

“She thinks she knows what she’s getting into,” I say, my voice cutting through the wind. “But she has no idea what claiming really means in our world.”

“And now there are two of them. The mayor’s daughter complicates things.”

That’s the understatement of the year. Cora Pike’s involvement transforms a contained situation into a potential political nightmare. But I’ve never been one to shy away from complications—I thrive on them.

“Mira, I understand,” Vane says, his eyes narrowed. “She’s chasing a story, willing to risk everything for it. But Pike’s daughter? What’s her angle?”

“Some people are drawn to danger,” Knox interjects. “Not everyone wants the safe, sanitized version of life.”

I slide my helmet back on. The Hunt preparations are nearly complete; the contestants have been selected, and the rules are established. Whatever motivations drive Mira Sullivan and Cora Pike to participate in our game, they’ve made their choice by signing those NDAs.

“We ride back separately,” I instruct. “I have preparations to finalize.” Then flip my visor down to shield my face.

They don’t question me. They never do when I use this tone. As I mount my bike and kick it to life, I feel the familiar rush of power beneath me. The Hunt has always been a fun, exclusive event, but this year’s Hunt feels different. This year, I’m not looking to have fun—I’m claiming someone I want.

I pull away from the overlook, leaving my brothers behind as the night embraces me. Two days until the Hunt begins. Two days until Mira Sullivan learns exactly what it means to challenge a Blackwood.

And I intend to teach her that lesson personally.

12

MIRA

Istare at the black leggings and fitted tank top laid out on my bed—the outfit I’ll wear to the Hunt in just two days. My apartment feels smaller tonight; the walls seem to be closing in. The copy of the signed NDA sits on my desk like a ticking bomb, reminding me that I’ve willingly walked into Xavier Blackwood’s trap. For what? A story that might never see the light of day, given what I’ve signed.

My laptop screen glows in the dim light, displaying the meager information I’ve gathered about the Blackwoods and their mysterious Hunt. It’s not enough to justify the risk.

“What have I done?” I whisper to the empty room.

The worst part isn’t what I’ve done to myself—it’s letting Cora choose the same path. What a mess. Her face appears in my mind: determined, excited even, at the prospect. She doesn’t understand what we’re up against. How could she? I barely understand it myself.

I pull out my notebook and flip through pages of observations about Xavier—his movements around Purgatory, snippets of overheard conversations. None of it tells me what the Hunt actually entails.

“Fifteen hunters. Six of us,” I murmur, trying to make sense of the odds.

My phone buzzes with a text from Cora.

Still can’t believe we’re doing this! What are you wearing?

The normalcy of her question makes me laugh bitterly. It’s as if we’re preparing for a cocktail party instead of whatever twisted game Xavier has designed.

I move to my living room wall, where I’ve created a makeshift evidence board. Photos of Xavier and his brothers, newspaper clippings about Purgatory’s opening, rumors of disappearances connected to the club—all connected with red strings in a web that feels increasingly tangled.

What exactly am I looking for during this Hunt? Evidence of illegal activities? Proof of the Blackwoods’ corruption? Or is something more specific about Xavier himself?

I grab my recorder and test it, then tuck it into a small, hidden pocket I’ve sewn into the lining of my dress. My insurance policy. I’ll need to be strategic about when to use it, assuming I get the chance.

I tuck the recorder away and sink onto my couch. The weight of what I’m about to do presses down on my chest.

“Dad would kill me if he knew,” I whisper to myself.

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