Page 65 of Overdose

Because someone like Dagger? He doesn’t move without strings tied to every limb. He’s got connections, leverage, layers—always playing three games at once. But every game’s got a weak point.

And I know exactly where to cut.

Taking out one of his mid-level guys won’t break him. But it’ll slice into the supply line.

Hard. And when the next shipment doesn’t land where it’s supposed to? When product goes dark and money stops flowing? Whoever’s waiting on the other end—whoever he’s in deep with—is gonna notice.

They won’t come looking for the guy cooling on this mattress.

No, they’ll come for Dagger.

That’s the plan.

That’s always been the fucking plan.

Rip out the roots. Shake the tree. Force the wolves to circle in tighter until they’re nipping at his throat. Make the wrong people nervous. Make the right ones furious. And when the flames start licking at his feet, I’ll be close enough to watch him burn for what he did to her.

To Brynn.

I glance at the digital clock on the busted dresser.

1:57 a.m.

Perfect.

I wash up in the bathroom sink, wiping the handle clean before I leave. Gloves off. Hoodie up. Blade tucked back in my boot. It’s raining now—drizzle that smells like old concrete and earth. I head down the stairs and across the back alley toward where I parked.

But I don’t make it.

Because she’s there.

Blair.

She doesn’t see me at first.

Hair down in soft waves—pink crashing into purple like a bruise in the shape of a girl. Damp. Loose. Like she just stepped out of the shower or someone else’s bed. Either way, she wears it like a warning.

And that fucking shirt.

His.

I know it’s Dagger’s the second I see it. Oversized, worn soft, hanging off her frame like it wasn’t made for her, and it wasn’t. Because it’s not mine. She’s swimming in it. Drowning in it. The way it hangs, the way it falls past her thighs—it’s his cut, his style, his brand of fucking possessive.

It’s like watching a ghost wear someone else’s skin.

Black leggings painted on like a second sin, a crumpled five-dollar bill clutched in one hand as she heads toward the vending machines outside the main office like it’s just another night.

She looks like everything I fucked up and everything I still want.

I take one step forward, and she turns.

Instant. Like shefeltme.

Her whole body goes still. Then something shifts—snaps. That calm-before-the-storm tension ruptures, and her expression twists into rage. Pure, blistering, venom-laced fury.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Blair—”