“Xavier?” Mira’s voice calls again, this time stronger.
I glance toward the center of the room, where she’s now sitting up fully, concern etched across her beautiful face. She’s looking at me like I matter to her, like my well-being is somehow important.
The feeling that crashes through me at that look should terrify me.
Instead, it makes me want to go to her.
I ignore whatever Knox mutters under his breath. My brothers’ eyes track my movement, but I don’t give a fuck what they think right now. The only thing that matters is the woman looking at me with those worried hazel eyes.
My bare feet move silently across the marble floor, stepping around scattered crystal shards and puddles of spilled whiskey. The closer I get to Mira, the more thetension bleeds out of my shoulders. It’s like she’s my anchor, pulling me back to myself.
She shifts slightly as I approach, making room on the silk cushions without disturbing Cora, who lies curled against her side in exhausted sleep. The mayor’s daughter looks younger as she lays sleeping, her face peaceful despite everything she’s endured over the past forty-eight hours. Dried tears streak her cheeks, but her breathing is deep and even.
I lower myself onto the cushions beside Mira, and the silk feels cool against my heated skin. She immediately leans into me, seeking the warmth of mine. The simple gesture weakens the knot of rage still coiled in my chest.
“Are you hurt?” she whispers, her fingertips ghosting over the cut on my lip that Knox left behind.
I catch her hand, pressing it flat against my jaw. “I’m fine.”
She doesn’t believe me—I can see it in her eyes. But she doesn’t push, which I’m grateful for. I’m not ready to explain why hearing my brother question her motives made me see red. I’m not ready to admit that the thought of her playing me hurts more than any physical blow Knox could land.
Instead, I cup her face in both hands, my thumbs stroking over her cheekbones.
“Don’t worry about it,” I murmur, leaning down to brush my lips against hers. The kiss is gentle, nothing like the desperate, consuming hunger that’s driven every interaction between us since the hunt began. This is just... comfort. Connection.
It terrifies me how right it feels.
“Go back to sleep,” I tell her when I pull away. “You need rest.”
Mira searches my eyes for a moment longer, then nods. She settles back against the cushions, pulling Cora closer with one arm while her other hand finds mine.
Even in sleep, she doesn’t let go.
34
MIRA
The horn’s deep, resonant blast jolts me from sleep, the sound echoing through the chamber. My eyes flutter open to find myself pressed against Xavier’s warm chest, his arm wrapped protectively around my waist. The cushions beneath us have shifted during our rest, silk pillows scattered around our intertwined bodies.
I lift my head, blinking away the haze of exhaustion. The other women lie nearby—Cora curled into herself a few feet away, Keira sprawled between discarded fabric, Lia’s dark hair fanned across crimson silk, Sadie huddled in a corner with her knees drawn to her chest. All of them taken. All of them are marked.
My brow furrows when I suddenly realize that Bianca is nowhere to be seen, and neither are the rest of the hunters—they’re gone. All except Xavier.
Knox, Vane, Landon—even the twins, the three menwho took Cora and the others who watched our every surrender—they’ve vanished like phantoms in the night.
“What’s happening?” I whisper, my voice rough from sleep and everything that came before.
Before Xavier can answer, the chamber’s ornate doors swing open. A procession of attendants enters, moving gracefully across the marble floor. They wear simple white robes and carry gleaming copper vessels, their movements synchronized and deliberate.
The lead attendant—a woman with silver hair swept into an elegant bun—approaches our cluster of cushions. Her voice carries the weight of ceremony when she speaks.
“The final phase of the Hollow’s Hunt begins. The Claiming Baths await.”
She gestures to the vessels her companions carry—oils that catch the chamber’s dim lighting shimmer in each vessel, towels soft as silk, and what appear to be luxurious robes in deep jewel tones.
“Each hunter privately bathes their prey,” she continues, her words as if it were a formal ritual in need of some semblance of reverence. “It is tradition. It is an honor. It is the possession of their spoils of the Hunt made sacred. The cleansing of your bodies of every touch except theirs.”
Xavier’s arm tightens around me, his thumb stroking along my rib cage in a gesture that’s both comforting and possessive. I can feel the tension radiating from him, a coiled energy that suggests this final phase holds significance.
