Raze’s hand tightens on the knife handle, blood spilling down his leg. His grin wavers for just a second before he forces it back. “Worth it.”
I shove him back and straighten. The room stinks of copper and gunpowder. Calvin’s body slumped over the table, his brains sliding down the wood.
I wipe the blood off my hands with his shirt. The tremor in my fingers won’t stop. I almost want to put another bullet in him just to quiet the noise in my head.
Raze limps toward the door, leaving a trail of blood. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”
“Always have been.”
I step past him into the hall. Two guards already lie dead, throats slit open. Wolff stands above them, panting, his blade dripping red and chest soaked.
“Block the exits,” I order. “Torch this place. Start with the east wing—trap anyone trying to run. We’re not leaving survivors. Casualties send fucking messages.”
I look back at Calvin’s crumpled corpse.
“Anyone working for Sterling should be fucking pissing themselves.” I head for the exit, leaving footprints in Calvin’s blood.
Sterling wanted a war.
He’s getting a goddamn massacre.
Since that night at the Devil’s Playhouse, Priest’s been gone more often. I don’t know where he goes, and I tell myself I don’t care. I pretend to be grateful he’s not hovering over me, watching every breath I take.
I stopped sleeping. I’m still taking my pain pills, but fuck sleeping pills. I can’t risk closing my eyes. Because when I do, he’s there.
I tell myself I’m disgusted, that I hate him, that I’m fine.
I don’t know if any of that’s true.
Caffeine, energy drinks, working out. I’ve been doing anything to keep myself from falling asleep. But I’m tired, my body aches. I feel my body begin to crash from the exhaustion, and I know I won’t make it another night without sleep. My heart feels like it’s beating too hard, too fast.
It’s been days.
The pills on the nightstand blur in my vision.
No.
I grab the bottle and throw it into the trash. I won’t sleep. Not yet. And if I do, at least without the pills I can wake myself up. Right?
The mattress pulls at me when I lie down. Every muscle aches. My eyes burn, lids heavy. The exhaustion feels like drowning.
I drift in and out, dark dreams and memories flashing in my head. I try to fight it, to pull myself back toward consciousness, but the effort slips through my fingers. The world tilts somewhere between waking and sleep.
The faint sound of the door opening cuts through the haze. My heart stumbles, then starts to race. I’m half-aware, caught between the pull of sleep and the pulse of fear. I don’t move. I keep my eyes closed, turned away from the sound—away from the monster stepping into the room.
Cloth rustles behind me, and I freeze, every nerve split between anger and something I don’t want to name.
Fear. Shame. Want.
Please don’t.
But I don’t say it out loud. I’m so tired of fighting. Tired of hating him and myself in the same breath.
The mattress dips, and his fingers find my hip, pulling me back until my spine meets his chest. Mint and smoke. The scent I’ve learned to dread. His lips brush my neck.
“Little one.”
I suck in a breath. His hand slides up and stops at my stomach. I slowly turn until we’re facing each other in the dark. His ice-blue eyes catch what little light there is. Too many emotions flashing there for a man who I swear doesn’t have any.
