Page 48 of Buried in Blood

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The door slams behind me with a crack.

The kind that makes you fearful and excited at the same time.

I toss my coat onto the nearest chair, fingers still buzzing with adrenaline. My boots leave muddy imprints across the marble, but I don’t care. Let the floor wear the bloodstains of victory. I earned them.

Reese is already in the living room, lounging against the wall with a drink in hand. He straightens when he sees me.

“Well?” he asks, already knowing.

I grin. “He’s in the cellar. Locked. Chained. Disarmed. And so very confused.”

Reese lifts his glass. “To dumbass heroes.”

I grab a bottle from the bar cart, twist the cap, and drink straight from it. The burn is nothing compared to the high surging through my veins.

“We didn’t just win,” I say, pacing slowly and controlled like a king returning from war. “We rewrote the rules.”

He hums in agreement, but his eyes flick toward the hallway. Waiting.

“I want her to hear it from me,” I say, already walking.

Harmony’s in the study, curled in the corner chair with a book she’s not reading. Her spine stiffens the moment I enter.

“I did it,” I announce, arms spread. “The fake move worked.”

She closes the book slowly. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t clap. Just watches me like I’m a storm forming in her living room.

“Dante came in through The Orchard perimeter,” I continue, voice low and smug. “Tried to act like a savior. Like he had the upper hand.” I laugh. “Now he’s chained to the same walls I built to break men like him.”

Her fingers twitch around the edges of the hardcover. “So he’s alive.”

“For now.”

She swallows.

I cross the room and sit across from her, resting my elbows on my knees.

“You doubted me,” I say softly. “But I told you, didn’t I? No one outsmarts me in my own kingdom.”

There’s a flicker in her eyes—fear, maybe. Or something darker. Something sharp enough to draw blood without even moving.

“You used me,” she whispers. “You used her.”

I tilt my head. “I used the lie. Not the girl. There’s a difference.”

She stands abruptly, walking toward the fireplace like she needs space. Like air is thinner around me.

Reese steps in then, drink still in hand, and leans in the doorway.

“Celebration or confrontation?” he asks dryly.

“Both,” I answer.

Harmony turns around. “So what now? You torture him? Parade him around like a trophy?”

“No,” I say. “That would be predictable.”