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)
Damiano tightens his fingers around mine. “So we stay. Together.”
Flint’s laugh is soft, almost surprised. “The fucked-up three musketeers. Who would’ve thought?”
“It’s not perfect,” I say, leaning into them both, “but it’s ours.”
The air shifts between us, charged with something more than just decision. The weight of what we’ve done—what we’ve chosen—settles around us, not as a burden but as a bond.
“No body, no crime,” I say softly, echoing the island saying I’d heard whispered since I arrived. “That’s what they say on Heathens Hollow.”
Flint’s mouth quirks into that dangerous half-smile. “Except we’ve got three bodies.”
“All safely buried,” Damiano adds, tracing patterns on my knee, “but I do need to check the plants over Liam. Make sure everything’s as it should be.”
“And I should get back to The Vault,” Flint adds. “Keep an ear out, see what people are saying about Viktor.”
I nod, understanding their need to maintain appearances, to move forward as if nothing has changed when everything has.
“Tonight,” I say. “Come back tonight. Both of you.”
They look at me, questions in their eyes.
“I want us together tonight,” I explain. “All of us.”
“Just to sleep?” Flint asks, that familiar heat already building behind his eyes.
I shake my head slowly, feeling something wild and reckless building inside me. Something that belongs to this island, to these men, to whatever darkness we’ve all embraced.
“No,” I say. “I want to do The Hunt tonight. For real this time.”
They both go still, eyes locked on mine.
“Briar,” Damiano begins cautiously, “with everything that just happened—”
“That’s exactly why,” I say. “I’m tired of being chased through that maze by someone trying to hurt me. I want to know what it feels like to be hunted by someone who...”
“Who what?” Flint prompts.
“Who loves me,” I finish, the word hanging between us, new and fragile and yet somehow as solid as the island beneath our feet.
Damiano’s breath catches. Flint’s jaw tightens, that muscle jumping in his cheek the way it does when he’s fighting for control.
“You want us to hunt you,” Damiano clarifies.”
Both of you,” I say, my gaze moving between them. “White nightgown. Red light. Whistles in the dark. The whole tradition.” I reach for both their hands. “I want to reclaim it. Make it ours.”
Flint tightens his fingers around mine. “You trying to exorcise some demons, princess?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “Or maybe I just want to feel what it’s like to be prey without the fear of dying. To be caught by the right predators.”
Flint and Damiano exchange a look, some silent communication passing between them that makes my skin prickle with anticipation.
“Get the red light,” Flint says to Damiano, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’ll bring the masks.”
“Tonight,” I say, the word both question and command.
Damiano brushes his lips against my temple, warm and certain. “Tonight.”
The island fog presses against the windows, surrounding Windward Estate like a protective blanket. Outside, the maze waits, its secrets multiplying with each passing day. But tonight, it will hold one more—not a tragedy this time, but something wilder, darker, and infinitely more alive.
Tonight, I will be the prey. And for once, I can’t wait to be caught.
Chapter 32
Briar
The red bulb casts bloody light across the porch where I stand. My white nightgown flutters around my bare legs, practically translucent in the moonlight. The fabric feels both foreign and familiar against my skin—the same style as the night everything changed, but not the same gown. That one burned in the fire pit behind the greenhouse, along with other evidence.
I curl my toes against the cold wooden boards, remembering the rules of The Hunt. Barefoot. Dressed in white. Prey waiting for predators.
The night wraps around Windward Estate like a cloak, fog curling between trees and slithering across the lawn. Perfect hunting weather. I breathe it in, tasting salt and pine and anticipation.
They’re out there somewhere. Watching. Waiting.
A breeze lifts my hair, sending dark strands dancing across my face. I push them back, scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. Nothing yet. Just shadows and silence.
Then I hear it.
The whistle.
Three notes carried on the wind, rising in pitch then falling. The signal. My pulse kicks up instantly, adrenaline flooding my system.
It comes again, closer this time. Not from the direction I expected—not from the forest, but from somewhere to the left, near the hedge maze.
I step off the porch, my bare feet sinking into dew-damp grass. The night air brushes against my skin, raising goosebumps across my arms, my legs, my neck. I pause, listening.
The whistle comes again. From a different direction.
They’ve split up.
Two hunters, one prey.
A laugh escapes me, something wild and unfamiliar. This is what I wanted. To be hunted by men who want to catch me, not kill me. Men who’ve seen the darkest parts of me and stayed anyway.
I run.
Not toward the maze—that would be too obvious. Instead, I head for the gardens, darting between sculpted hedges and stone pathways. The dewy grass muffles my footsteps, and the fog swallows my white-clad figure almost immediately.