On the front door feed, I see movement: two shadows, maybe three, darting past the window. One crouches, weapon drawn. They move like pros, no wasted motion.
I hear the first shot, muffled but close. I flinch, knock over a can of beans from the shelf. The clatter makes me jump again.
On the screen, Briar steps into the frame, gun raised. He fires once, twice, and one of the shadows drops. The other two scatter, one firing blind through the window, shattering glass and scattering dust. Briar doesn’t duck. He moves, trying to get to the table where the bag of guns lies.
One of the attackers follows and punches him in the back of the head. Briar grins, rearing back and head butting him square in the nose.
It’s so intimate, the violence. The impact, the heat, the spray of blood over Briar’s skin It’s less like a fistfight and more like a choreographed hate confession, every strike timed to say something raw and secret between killers. I want to look away, but I can’t. Even as I dig my fingernails into my thighs and whisper “please, please,” I keep my eyes glued to the pixelated black-and-white ballet on the monitor.
Briar’s smile is the last thing one guy sees before he pulls the trigger, the shot blasting through his face. The dude goes down clutching the new hole where his nose should be, and Briar doesn’t bother with a finishing move—he just pivots, catches another one in the shoulder with a bullet, just as a knife comes across, catching Briar across the stomach.
He doesn’t even pause. He just grabs the guys hand, twists, breaks the bone and takes the knife, driving it into his attackers neck.
Once. Twice. Three times and it’s over.
It’s beautiful. It’s horrifying. My mouth is a dry, echoing pit. I try to remember how to breathe.
The feed goes static for a second. My hands are shaking so bad I can’t keep them still.
I watch, and I wait, and I pray to every god I’ve never believed in.
For a long time, nothing.
Then, the basement door opens. Briar staggers in, a gash on his arm and one across his stomach, blood soaking the fabric of his shirt.
The relief is so huge it almost knocks me off my feet.
He disappears out of sight. I run to the door, press my ear against it, and listen.
A moment later, the bookcase cracks open. He stands there, gun at his side, face white but alive.
He sees me and grins. “Told you I’d come back.”
I can’t think. I just throw myself at him, wrap my arms around his waist, and hold on tight.
He winces, but hugs me back with his good arm.
We stand like that, both shaking, until the sun finally cracks the sky outside and paints the little bunker in orange.
“There’s a first aid kit in the corner. Be a good pet and grab it. You’re gonna learn how to sew me up before we get the fuck out of here.”
Chapter Ten: Briar
Thekitchenisstillexcept for the hum of the fridge and the wind scratching at the boarded windows. The little camp lantern in the center of the table throws more shadow than light, catching the slick curve of blood on my stomach as Landon surveys the damage. I’m shirtless, jeans slashed at the thigh from a glancing knife.
He kneels between my legs, both hands slick and red, his mouth set in a line that’s all determination and no fear. I watch the lamp’s glow crawl over his cheekbones, making his freckles stand out. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He knows better. Instead, he cracks the first aid kit, lays out the suture kit, the bottle of clear vodka, and a roll of tape.
“Should I numb you first?” he asks. The words are quiet, and they don’t tremble.
I hold his gaze, then unscrew the bottle and take a slug that torches all the way down. The pain is hot, but distant. “Just do it.”
He threads the needle, hands steady as they could be, then wipes the cut with a stinging swipe of disinfectant. I grunt. Landon blots the blood away and slides the needle into my skin,slow but not tentative. The pinch is sharp, but I don’t flinch. The only noise is the clock on the stove counting down my half-life in this hole.
He works efficiently, mouth open just enough that I see the concentration in the flex of his jaw. The pain gets worse, but I like the focus it brings. I count the stitches as he goes. At seven, he stops, looks up at me.
“Hold still.”
“I’m holding.”
