I straighten my shoulders. “Something worth hiding. Something powerful people pay good money to experience.”
A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “You sound quite confident for someone mixing drinks on the wrong side of the velvet rope.”
“I’m observant,” I counter.
“Are you?” he rasps. “Do the whispers match the story you’ve built in your head? Do you know what desire looks like when it’s let loose—when people drop the pretenses and go after what they truly want?”
My reporter’s instincts tingle. There’s something specific he’s referring to, something beyond the drug dealing and money laundering I’m certain he’s involved in. Whatever’s happening behind those doors might be bigger than I thought.
“Why don’t you show me?” I suggest boldly.
Xavier’s eyes darken, and a slow, devilish smile spreads across his face. He steps closer, the space between us evaporating until I can feel the heat radiating from him. My back presses against the wall, but I refuse to shrink under his gaze.
“Show you?” He reaches up, brushing a strand of hair from my face with what feels like deliberate care as if appraising what stands before him—me. “Careful what you ask for, Ms. Sullivan. Not everyone who enters Purgatory’s inner sanctum leaves with their... innocence intact.”
His fingers trail down my cheek, making my breath catch. Still, I maintain eye contact, refusing to be intimidated.
“Curious little bartender,” he murmurs. “I admire ambition, even when it’s misguided.”
He leans in, his lips nearly grazing my ear. “Perhaps you’ll receive an invitation soon. We’re preparing for something special. An event where desires become a reality and only the worthy survive.”
My heart pounds against my ribcage, anxiety welling up at his words. The Hollow’s Hunt. It has to be.
“Only the most intriguing people receive such invitations,” he continues, his fingers now tracing the line of my collarbone, sending unwanted shivers down my spine. “Are you intriguing enough, I wonder?”
“I guess you’ll have to find out,” I challenge.
Xavier steps back, studying me with renewed interest. “I suppose so.”
This is it—the opening I’ve been waiting for. Three weeks of dead ends and superficial observations could finally give way to the real story. If I can get into the Hunt, I might finally uncover whatever the Blackwoods are hiding behind Purgatory’s polished façade.
The thought thrills me—and scares the hell out of me. I’ve heard enough whispers to know I’m playing with fire, but some stories are worth getting burned for.
3
XAVIER
Itap my pen against the leather desk blotter, staring at the embossed invitations laid out before me. Three already addressed, two blank. The final spots for the Hunt.
My annual game requires perfect balance—five women and fifteen men. The math is simple, the execution less so. Each participant must meet exacting criteria: wealth, connections, and expendability if things go wrong. Most importantly, they must be outsiders to Purgatory’s inner workings.
Yet here I am, contemplating inviting Mira Sullivan. An employee. A fascinating contradiction wrapped in chestnut hair and delicious defiance.
“Fuck.” I pour another whiskey.
The amber liquid catches the light as I swirl it, much like Mira has been swirling through my thoughts since our encounter. Knox would call this reckless. Vane wouldcall it stupid. Landon wouldn’t say a lot, but I’d know from the look on his face. And they’d be right.
I take a slow sip, letting the warmth it brings shroud the frustration building in my chest. The Hunt operates under strict parameters. Rules exist for a reason—breaking them creates vulnerability, and vulnerability creates risk. And not all risk creates reward.
But the image of Mira challenging me, her hazel eyes flashing with that infuriating cocktail of fear and courage, refusing to fade.
I return my focus to my desk, fingers brushing over the blank invitation. Employees know too much. They see behind the curtain. The Hunt exposes our operation’s darkest edges—something no staff member should witness firsthand.
Yet Mira isn’t just any employee. She’s different. Calculating. Driven by something beyond mere curiosity. Perhaps that’s what draws me to her—the sense that she’s playing her own game, just as I play mine.
The Hunt requires participants who are unfamiliar with the rules. Whose fear is genuine. Whose submission means something.
I lift one of the blank invitations, feeling its weight. Two weeks until everything begins. My brothers expect perfection. The guests expect decadence. The Hunt demands a flawless balance.
