Page 71 of Haunted

Not during the Hunt. Not when forty-eight hours still remain, and every decision I make gets scrutinized byfourteen other hunters who’d love nothing more than to see me stumble.

But the truth claws at the edges of my consciousness anyway, demanding acknowledgment. Mira Sullivan is the first woman to hold my attention like this. The first prey who’s made me question every instinct I’ve honed over the years of these events.

Usually, by now, I’d have moved on. Claimed my target, brought her to the center chamber, and started eyeing the next conquest. The Hunt has always been about power, about demonstrating dominance over multiple women throughout the extended timeline. It’s a marathon of control, not a sprint toward singular obsession.

Yet here I am, shadowing one adversary like she’s the only woman in this entire maze.

The realization sends ice through my veins. This Hunt isn’t going to follow the usual pattern. It can’t, not when every fiber of my being seems calibrated to her frequency. When the thought of another hunter even looking at her sideways makes my hands itch for violence, forget about sharing her. That shit is not happening.

Mira stumbles slightly, catching herself against the corridor wall, and my muscles tense with the urge to steady her. To fucking help her. The response is so contrary to everything the Hunt represents that it nearly brings me to a standstill.

In previous years, I’d have orchestrated elaborate scenarios to drive prey to their breaking points. Wouldhave set up psychological traps designed to completely shatter their resolve. The maze itself is a testament to that methodology—every chamber is crafted to exploit specific fears and desires.

But with Mira, the calculations feel different. Wrong, somehow. Unlike the usual formulas, they don’t apply to the equation she represents.

She pushes off from the wall and continues walking, her bare feet silent on the polished floor. The sight of her in my shirt, drowning in the fabric that carries my scent, creates a tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with sexual satisfaction and everything to do with possession of an entirely different nature.

This Hunt is going to be different.

The acknowledgment sits heavy in my gut, undeniable despite every instinct screaming against such vulnerability. Different in ways I’m not equipped to handle, ways that could fundamentally alter the power dynamics I’ve spent decades perfecting.

28

MIRA

My bare feet make no sound against the floor as I wander deeper into this maze. Xavier’s shirt hangs loose on me, the fabric still carrying his scent—dark spice and uniquely his that makes my stomach clench.

Exhaustion weighs on my limbs like lead, but sleep feels impossible now. Every shadow could hide another hunter. Every corridor could lead to another trap. The time I spent unconscious feel like stolen time, borrowed safety that’s already expired.

A sound drifts through the maze—high-pitched, breathless. At first, it sounds like someone in pain. Still, as it continues, it becomes unmistakable that it is a woman moaning in ecstasy.

I should run in the opposite direction because nothing good can come from following those cries. Still, after everything I’ve witnessed, curiosity wins over self-preservation. The researcher in me needs to see, needs to understand the full scope of this twisted world.

The sounds grow louder as I move through a narrow passage. My fingertips trail along the wall for guidance in the dim lighting, and a wet and sticky substance transfers to my skin. I jerk my hand back, expecting blood, but when I examine my fingers in the pale light, the substance is too bright, too red.

Paint.

The walls are smeared with crimson streaks that drip down like abstract artwork. Or perhaps it’s meant to resemble blood. In this place, both options seem equally plausible.

Pieces of torn fabric litter the floor—lace, leather. A black bra hangs from a protruding stone. Further along, a pair of shredded panties clings to what looks like a medieval sconce.

The moaning intensifies, joined now by deeper groans and the rhythmic sound of flesh meeting flesh. Multiple voices blend together in a symphony of lust that makes my pulse quicken despite my revulsion.

Heavy chains dangle from the ceiling ahead, swaying slightly as if recently used. Some still have leather cuffs attached, while others end in metal hooks that gleam dully in the torchlight. The sight sends a shiver of recognition through me—memories of being restrained in the pool, of Xavier’s hands controlling every aspect of my pleasure.

I press forward, drawn by a sick fascination I can’t quite grasp.

The passage opens into a circular chamber lit by flickering torches mounted on iron brackets.

Keira lies sprawled across a padded platform in the center of the room, her dark red hair fanned out like spilled wine. Her body arches, every muscle taut with pleasure as two identical figures move over her.

One kneels between her spread thighs, his head buried against her most intimate place while his hands grip her hips. The other straddles her chest, feeding her his cock as she takes him eagerly, her throat working around him.

Keira’s eyes roll back in ecstasy, her hands fisted in the sheets beneath her. Soft whimpers escape around the cock filling her mouth, growing louder as the twin between her legs increases his pace. Her legs tremble violently, toes curling as another wave of pleasure crashes over her.

"Good girl," the twin at her head murmurs, his voice rough with lust. "Take everything we give you."

The one between her thighs lifts his head, chin glistening with her arousal. “She’s close again, brother. I can feel how she’s clenching around my tongue.”

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