Page 108 of Buried in Blood
I stole his control.
And Damien doesn’t survive without control.
* * *
The tunnel breathes around us, cold and damp. Silent too, except for the sound of Brooke’s teeth clicking softly against one another.
I check my watch again.
7:12.
We’ve been parked in the darkness for nearly an hour. No cell service. No GPS. Just dead air and the faint hum of the engine.
She hasn’t said a word since we pulled in.
Not even when I offered her my jacket.
Not even when I said her name.
And I don’t push.
Because I know what silence sounds like when it’s covering a scream.
Finally, the second phone buzzes once.
The code’s clear:GO.
I shift into gear and pull out of the tunnel, like a ghost rising from a grave, headlights off until we hit the main road.
The convoy meets us two miles down—an old transport truck already loaded with supplies, medical kits, and false license plates. Our men are inside. Ronan, one of them, hops out and nods when he sees Brooke.
Then his eyes meet mine.
“Everything go smooth?”
“Not even a little,” I say. “But she’s ours.”
He opens the back panel. “You want her here?”
I shake my head. “No. She rides with me.”
Ronan doesn’t question it.
Smart.
I open the passenger side again. “Come on,” I tell her. “We’re not far.”
She moves like her limbs don’t belong to her anymore. One heel is gone. The other dangles from her fingers. Her hair’s a mess. Her lipstick is smeared. But she’s walking. Barely.
It’s enough.
We drive for another twenty minutes before turning off onto a forgotten road leading to my abandoned house on my property—acres of rot and brush in the middle of nowhere, punctuated by a crumbling farmhouse and a rusted swing-set that creaks even when there’s no wind.
I kill the lights.
Drive around the back.
Park beneath the overgrown trees.
