Page 126 of Daggermouth

The living room looked worse in daylight. Bullet holes punctured the walls, furniture lay overturned, glass shards glittered across the floor like malicious stars. Blood had dried in dark patches on the floor, the white walls, the couch. The bodies still lay where they fell, marinating in their own blood.

Her eyes roved over the room before they dragged up to look at Greyson. He stood by the cracked window, blinds drawn against the morning light, tablet pressed to his ear. He wore only sweatpants, his torso bare, revealing the full extent of the damage beneath the skull stretched across his back. The fresh graze wound from her bullet curved around his side, angry and red against his skin. Above it, his fathers bullet and the older one from the day they’d met was still healing, the skin puckered and pink.

His voice was low as he talked into the tablet and she took a step closer, trying to hear what he was saying, who he was speaking to.

He turned as her bare foot landed on a shard of glass, her hiss and the train of expletives that followed announcing her presence. Their eyes met across the destroyed room, and for a moment, neither moved. The phone call continued, his voice lowering further, but his eyes stayed on her. Watching. Studying.

Shadera felt exposed, vulnerable as the memory of his hands on her body, his mouth against her skin, swarmed her mind at the sight of himshirtless in front of her. The silence stretched between them, loaded and awkward until she couldn’t stand it anymore.

“You know,” she said, voice rough from sleep and liquor, “you really need to learn how to dodge. That’s twice now I’ve shot you. Pattern’s emerging.”

Greyson’s lips twitched, almost a smile.

“Just get here,” he said, then ended the call without waiting for a response and set the tablet on what remained of the coffee table. “Maybe you should learn to use your words like an adult instead of just shooting me.”

Shadera turned away to hide the smile threatening to break free, moving toward the kitchen. Coffee. She needed coffee to deal with whatever this was, needed distance from his bare skin and the memories it evoked.

The body that’d been on the kitchen floor last night was the only one moved, creating a path to the coffee machine that was miraculously untouched by the violence. She poured a cup, black, strong enough to strip paint. The first sip burned, perfect in its bitterness. She moved to lift herself onto the island, then froze.

The island.

Images flashed—his hands on her throat, her legs around his waist, the desperate hunger of their kiss. Heat crawled up her neck, and she quickly moved away, leaning against the opposite counter instead, shaking the thoughts from her mind.

“About the bodies,” she said, needing to fill the silence with something,anythingelse.

Greyson sighed, running a hand through his hair. The gesture was unguarded, tired. “Callum’s coming with his men. They’ll handle it.”

“Handle it how?”

“The way he handles everything. Efficiently. Quietly.” He moved closer, stopping at the opposite end of the counter, maintaining distancebut closing it enough that she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. “We should talk about last night.”

“No.”

“Shadera—”

“I was drunk.” The words came out too fast, too sharp. “Whatever happened, I’ve already forgotten it. Blackout. Complete memory loss. Medical marvel, really.”

He watched her, that intense gaze that seemed to see through every lie she’d ever told. “Is that right?”

“That’s right.” She met his stare. “And if you ever try to touch me again, I’ll kill you. Properly this time. No more grazes.”

The threat hung between them, hollow even to her own ears. She’d already shot him twice and it’d only seemed to turn him on. She wasn’t sure what that said about either of them.

Something shifted in his expression and Greyson’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Wasn’t the part of the night I was referring to, but I’m glad to see it’s so heavy on your mind.”

She opened her mouth to respond—to deny, to threaten, to do something—when a knock echoed through the apartment.

Three sharp raps. Measured. Deliberate.

Greyson’s demeanor changed instantly. The smile vanished, replaced by alertness. His hand went to the back of his waistband, drawing the gun tucked there. He moved toward the door with careful steps, keeping to the side, out of direct line of fire.

“Who is it?” he called, his voice neutral.

“It’s me,” Callum snapped. “Open the fucking door before someone sees me standing here like an idiot.”

Greyson’s shoulders relaxed. He peered through the peephole, then unlocked the door, keeping the gun partially hidden behind his leg as he pulled it open.

Callumstoodinthedoorway with a briefcase in hand, wearing an impeccable suit despite the early hour, not a cropped curl out of place, looking like he’d stepped from a magazine rather than arriving to clean up a massacre.