Chapter Nine: Landon
Iwaketothepressof a hand against my mouth.
Not hard. Not panic-inducing. Just there—just enough to remind me that my life’s not my own anymore.
I don’t scream, which probably means I’ve adapted. Or that I’m still half asleep and waiting for a better reality to drift in.
The room is black but for the thin knife of city light that cuts across Briar’s cheekbone. He’s leaning over me, forearm braced beside my head, the rest of him still and composed. I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel them, drilling through the dark, glued to my face.
“Wake up,” he says. His voice is low, measured, like he’s speaking into a tape recorder for extortion.
I’m awake. My chest is tight, my ass aches, my throat is raw with thirst and some other animal need. I lick my lips and sit up.
“Everything is packed,” he says. “We’re leaving. Now.”
He moves fast after that. Gone is the slow, muscular grace from before; this is business, not pleasure. He tosses a black bundle onto the bed. Clothes—soft, expensive, not mine. I pull the shirt on and wince as my shoulder twinges. The pants are sweatpants, soft enough to hide the swelling at my hips and thebite marks that pucker my thigh. I feel the urge to ask what’s happening, but he seems a bit pissy.
And my ass definitely can’t handle another punishment right now.
When he’s satisfied that I’m clothed, he moves to the closet and grabs two duffel bags, one black, one navy. They hit the floor with a thud, heavy enough to be full of bricks or guns or both.
“We’re not coming back?” I ask, trying to understand what the fuck the rush is.
He snorts. “Grab the blue bag, it’s lighter.”
I grab the navy bag, because I know if I try for the black one, he’ll take it from me and make some asshole comment about muscle mass. I shoulder the strap and follow him down the hallway.
The apartment is dead silent. No trace of what happened last night. The carpet is spotless, the table wiped clean, even the air smells different—citrus and disinfectant instead of sex and blood. The only proof that anything happened is in my body: the way my legs threaten to buckle, the ache where he split me open.
He leads me past the kitchen, where the breakfast plates are gone, then past the living room, where there’s nothing but the faintest impression of the two bodies that bled out on the marble. He must have cleaned it himself. The thought is both comforting and horrifying.
Opening a closet, he tosses me thick socks and boots before putting his bag down and putting his own on. I follow suite and grab a jacket hanging on the door. He nods and opens the door, leading us out and into the mansion.
It’s dark, but he leads with confidence, only stopping at an elevator.
Why a house needs an elevator is beyond me, but we step in.
He presses the button for the basement garage as I scan the panel. There’s four floors, a basement and a parking garage.This house is bigger than I thought. He keeps his eyes on the mirrored doors, jaw set so hard I wonder if his teeth will crack.
I want to ask, “Are we running?” but I know better. I just watch our reflections, the way his hand hovers near the waistband of his sweats, fingers flexing in and out. Mine are locked on the bag, squeezing until the fabric creaks.
When the doors open, the air is cold and sharp, full of exhaust. The garage is empty except for a single black SUV, matte finish, no plates. He pops the trunk, throws the bags in, then gestures for me to get in the passenger side.
The second the doors close, the cabin floods with silence. He turns the key, engine purring, then sits for a second, both hands gripping the wheel. He doesn’t look at me, just stares through the windshield at the dark wall ahead.
“We have twenty minutes before they hit the apartment. My cousin, Eve, called and told me that House Harrington has my back, but that the rest of The Silent are moving against me. Us,”he says. “If team one fails, they will send the Disposals. I am good, but I’m not that good.”
I swallow. “Who’s after us?”
His mouth twitches. “Everyone who is someone in this place. That means someone’s already paid for your death… and mine.”
I try to process this, but my brain’s a pinball machine, thoughts ricocheting off the memory of the last twenty-four hours. “I thought you said you were protecting me.”
He snorts, starts driving. “I am. But the system only believes it if I follow the script.”
“And the script is—?”
“Interrogate. Extract value. Dispose. I did what I could to get them off the trail, but it appears it didn’t work. No matter. I have places.”
