Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
I stare at the screen, unsure what to say next. Last night feels like a dream. The herbs, the greenhouse, Damiano’s hands on me, Flint watching us through the glass. What had gotten into me? I’ve never been that bold, that shameless with anyone before.
It had to be the herbs. Or the shock of killing someone. It couldn’t have been just... him. Though when I close my eyes, I can still see his tattoos under my fingertips, still taste his skin.
I pace my room, thinking. The search parties are a problem, but The Hunt could be worse—people specifically in the maze, possibly discovering Liam’s grave. I need more information.
Feeling restless and knowing there’s no way I can simply go to bed and sleep right now, I make a decision that will surely piss off Damiano. I grab my warmest cardigan and slip my phone into my pocket, then text Mrs. Fletcher that I’m going for a drive to clear my head after the stressful day. Before she can protest, I’m out the back door and heading down the gravel path toward the Jeep.
The Vault is the last place I should be going, but if I want to know about The Hunt, and if there is a way to keep the participants off my property, I need to talk to someone who might be able to make that happen. Someone who is connected to it.
And, if I’m being honest with myself, there’s another reason I’m headed there. After what happened in the greenhouse—the three of us locked in that strange moment—I need to talk to Flint. I need to understand what I saw passing between him and Damiano, what I felt when he watched us.
Just curiosity, I tell myself as I follow the coastal road toward town. Just getting information to protect ourselves…
Chapter 17
Briar
The Vault’s exterior doesn’t live up to its reputation—just an old bank building on Main Street with discreet lighting and a simple sign. No line outside, no bouncers visible—nothing to suggest what happens behind those heavy doors.
I hesitate at the entrance, aware of how stupid this plan is. What am I even doing here? I’m about to turn back when the door opens, and a couple steps out—both in designer clothes that scream money and status. They barely glance at me as they pass.
Before the door can close, I slip inside.
The entryway is a small, dimly lit space with a sleek desk. A woman with impeccable makeup and a black dress sits behind it, typing on a tablet. She looks up, her expression carefully neutral as she takes in my casual clothes.
“Membership card?”
“I don’t have one. I’m Briar Waters.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly at my last name. “Waters? Maxwell Waters’s daughter?”
I nod, trying to project confidence I don’t feel. “I’m looking for Flint Bishop. He works here.”
She studies me for a moment, then taps something on her tablet. “One moment, Ms. Waters.”
While she makes a call, I take in the entrance. Subtle lighting, expensive art on the walls, the scent of something woodsy and expensive in the air. Everything designed to signal exclusivity.
“Flint’s working tonight,” she eventually says. “You may go in, but I should warn you that The Vault has a dress code. In the future, we’d appreciate appropriate attire.”
She gestures to a heavy door behind her, which unlocks with an audible click.
“Thank you,” I say, moving past her before she can change her mind.
The main room hits all my senses at once. The lighting is even lower here, predominantly red and black with strategic spotlights highlighting certain areas. Music with a heavy bass line thrums through the space. The original bank features have been preserved—high ceilings, marble columns, and even the original vault door standing open at the far end, leading to what looks like private rooms.
What the old bank didn’t have were the plush velvet couches arranged throughout the space, or the people on them engaging in activities that make my cheeks heat. A woman in a corset leads a man on a leash past me. In one corner, a man in an expensive suit has a woman bent over his lap, her dress hiked up as he spanks her with what looks like a leather paddle. Neither seems concerned about their audience.
I feel painfully out of place in my cardigan and jeans, surrounded by silk, leather, and skin. Several people glance at me with confusion or amusement before they return to their conversations or partners.
The bar stretches along one wall, black marble with soft lighting underneath. And there’s Flint, mixing a drink with practiced movements, his attention focused on the liquid he’s pouring. He looks different here—still in all black, but more polished. His hair is pulled back, the white streak even more striking against the black. He laughs at something a customer says, and I’m struck by how rarely I’ve seen him smile.