Page 194 of Buried in Blood

“I bought it after I gave you the motel card,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “Didn’t think I’d ever let anyone see it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why now?”

He kills the engine. “Because you deserve somewhere safe.”

The inside smells like cedar and soap. Clean, organized, lived-in. His boots are by the door, lined up with militant precision. A few photos sit on the mantel—Reese with a dog, Reese in uniform, Reese beside Dante and Lucien years ago, all of them younger, not yet haunted.

He guides me to the couch, where I sink into the cushions with a groan. The pain medication is fading, leaving a dull throb in its wake.

“Do you want water? Food?” he asks.

“Water first. Then food. Then… maybe a nap.”

He chuckles. “I can handle that.”

As he walks into the kitchen, I glance around the room. There’s a blanket folded on the armchair. A lamp with a cracked shade. A bookshelf lined with titles I wouldn’t have expected—classics, crime novels, even a few psychology books.

Reese is a puzzle I’ve only just begun to solve.

He returns with a glass of water, kneels beside me, and holds it out. I take it, our fingers brushing. It’s such a simple thing, but my breath hitches anyway.

“I don’t know how to be here,” I admit. “In a house. With… you.”

His eyes soften. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

After I eat—toast, eggs, and fruit, all cut carefully by Reese’s steady hands—he helps me to the bathroom. I insist on going alone.

It’s my first time seeing myself in a mirror in days.

My face is pale, my eyes ringed in purple, my lips cracked. The scar below my ribs is angry and red, still fresh. I touch it with tentative fingers.

I’m alive.

That should be enough.

When I emerge, Reese has set up the guest room. Fresh sheets. Fluffed pillows. A heating pad is plugged in on the nightstand.

I pause in the doorway.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he says.

I climb into bed, exhaling slowly as my body sinks into the mattress. Reese stands in the doorway, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay.

“Will you sit with me?” I ask quietly.

He does.

We don’t speak for a long time.

His hand finds mine beneath the blanket, and we sit like that, just breathing.

“I was scared you’d hate me,” I whisper.

“I never could.”

“You let Damien live—for a while.”