“Dispatch.”
I just stare at the laptop. My hands tremble so hard I think I might drop it.
I want to puke, but there’s nothing left inside me.
There’s a noise in the hall—soft at first, then closer. I try to turn off the screen but I’m too slow.
The door opens. Briar stands there, chest stained with blood, hands raw and red. His eyes flick to the laptop, then to me.
He sighs, deep and slow, like he expected this.
“Oh, pet,” he says. His voice is gentle, but there’s no comfortin it.
He steps into the room, closes the door behind him, and I realize I am trapped in here with him, alone, with no witnesses, no cameras, no hope.
Briar crouches in front of me, one hand braced on the floor. His other hand cradles my jaw, thumb tracing the edge of my cheek.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I want to say something smart. I want to say anything.
But all I can do is stare.
He tilts my chin, makes me meet his gaze.
“Do you know what I do to people who betray me?” he whispers.
His breath is sweet, laced with citrus and iron.
I shake my head.
He smiles. “You’re about to find out.”
And then pulls me up and kisses me, slow and careful, as if he wants to taste every piece of my fear.
I let him.
Because I have no other choice.
Chapter Eight: Briar
Ipullawayfromhismouth, savoring the taste of fear and confusion. He stands there, stock-still, the screen of the laptop burning blue behind him, his jaw clenched. His chest rises and falls too fast, a wild animal in a cage, but he doesn’t run. I like that. I cup his jaw and run my thumb over his lower lip, wiping away the wetness where I bit him, and for a second I let myself imagine gentler things.
That’s overfuckingquick.
He needs to understand what this is.
I straighten, glance at the hidden panel in the wall, and snap my fingers. “Out,” I say, and Landon moves before he even knows he’s moving, pushing past me into the hall.
I don’t let him look at the bodies in the living room as I guide him down the hallway, one hand firm at his nape, forcing his head forward. The corpses are still in a heap in the corner, blood leaking out in two directions across the white marble and into the grout lines. One of them knocked over a vase on his way down. Flowers and blood mix on the floor, a handful of petals sticking to the bone-shard edge of a shattered jaw.
Landon makes a sound in the back of his throat, but he swallows it fast. I don’t give him time to process. I don’t give him time for anything.
We walk past the open-concept kitchen, the glass-front cabinets, the evidence of breakfast still hot on the plates. The smell of bacon is gone, replaced by the stench of death. In the hall, I turn him left, where there’s a stretch of blank wall with a single painting—blue, splatter, mid-century, worth more than a house. I press on the lower edge and the panel clicks, hinges inward. Behind it, a narrow stair leads down, painted matte black, the steps so smooth they could be obsidian.
He hesitates, and I growl. “Move.”
He moves. Bare feet on cold stairs, the descent measured by the way the heat fades from the air with each step. The soundproofing is perfect. At the bottom, another door. I palm the print-lock, wait for the green flash, and push it open.
