Page 9 of Haunted

I lean back in my chair. “Not decided yet. Why?”

Knox bites his lip, a tell I’ve recognized since he was a child trying to hide something valuable. Interesting. I can count on one hand the number of times Knox has shown genuine interest in our selection process for the Hunt. He typically waits to see who catches his eye during the event itself, leaving the planning to me.

“You have someone in mind.” It’s not a question.

“Maybe.” His fingers tap against the arm of the chair.

“Keira, Mira, Lia, and Sadie are already selected,” I inform him. “If you’re suddenly taking an interest in our guest list, I’m curious to know why.” After all, he’s not the first brother to advocate for an invitee. Vane picked Lia, but that’s not unusual. He normally likes to pick a woman before the Hunt.

Knox shifts in his seat, and seeing his discomfort, gives me a rare moment of amusement. My perpetually confident brother is suddenly acting like an awkward teenager piques my interest.

“For fuck’s sake, Knox. Spit it out. Who do you want invited?”

“Bianca,” he says. “Bianca Hayes.”

The new artist whom Knox found for me to create pieces for Purgatory’s more exclusive rooms. Talented,fiercely independent, and completely unimpressed by Knox’s usual charm offensive.

“Bianca Hayes,” I repeat. “My, my... the woman who told you your taste in art was ‘slightly more refined than a college freshman with their first credit card’? That Bianca Hayes?”

Knox scowls. “She’s... interesting.”

“Interesting,” I echo. “That’s certainly one word for a woman who seems entirely immune to your particular brand of bullshit.”

Knox growls, slumping further into the chair. “Fuck you, Xavier.”

I chuckle, enjoying the rare opportunity to see my younger brother squirm. Knox, who never misses a chance to torment everyone around him, despises being on the receiving end.

“What’s wrong, little brother? You dish it out to everyone who crosses your path, but can’t take it when it comes back your way?” I tap the blank envelope against my desk. “Seems only fair after years of your relentless commentary on everyone else’s interests.”

“Are you inviting her or not?” Knox asks.

I consider the request. Knox rarely shows genuine interest in anything. The fact that he’s asking for something—and seeming uncomfortable about it—makes me curious about this woman who’s managed to get under his skin.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, which is as close to agreement as he’ll get from me.

Knox seems satisfied with that answer; leaningforward, he changes the subject. “So, who are the hunters this year?”

“The usual suspects. You, me, Vane, and Landon, of course. The Dexter twins—Ace and Cyrus—have confirmed.”

“Those two are fucking terrifying,” Knox mutters.

“Dominic and Elliot are in. Julian as well,” I continue, flipping through the acceptances. “Liam and Marcus. Ryder.” I pause, checking the final confirmations. “Jenson, Theo, and Victor round out the fifteen.”

“Solid lineup,” Knox nods, reaching for the whiskey again. “Should be an interesting Hunt.” He pours himself two fingers and downs it like it’s cheap tequila rather than savoring the taste of the scotch that costs a thousand dollars a bottle. “You think this is a good idea?” Knox asks, refilling his glass again. “Inviting a journalist to the Hunt? I mean, I love chaos as much as the next guy—actually, more than the next guy—but this seems reckless even by my standards.”

I tap my fingers against the invitation bearing Mira Sullivan’s name. The revelation of her true identity doesn’t diminish my interest—it heightens it. A journalist playing bartender, thinking she can expose our operation with a few well-placed questions and observant eyes.

“Since when did you become the voice of caution, Knox? I find it rather unsettling.”

“I’m not cautious,” he counters with a smirk. “I’m selective about my disasters. There’s a difference.”

I barely register his words because my mind iscalculating and reassessing my interaction with Mira—her challenging stare, the careful way she positions herself to overhear conversations, how she monitors the VIP section while pretending not to.

“Earth to Xavier,” Knox waves his hand in front of my face. “You’re doing that thing where you go all supervillain in your head. Care to share with the class?”

“I’m wondering,” I say slowly, “what Miss Sullivan thinks she’ll accomplish. What publication would risk the legal nightmare of printing unsubstantiated claims about us? What protection does she imagine she has?”

Knox shrugs. “Maybe she’s counting on the power of the press. Or maybe she hasn’t thought that far ahead.”

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