Page 117 of Buried in Blood
“Then why did you?”
His gaze flicks to mine. “Because I couldn’t not.”
The tension is a wire between us, strung tight, humming with everything we’ve never said. I study him—dark circles under his eyes, a bruise blooming at the edge of his jaw, like Damien’s paranoia is catching up to everyone.
“You’re not safe here,” I whisper.
Reese’s smile is humorless. “Neither are you.”
“I haven’t been safe in years.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, voice low, like he’s afraid the walls might be listening. “He knows about Brooke. About Lucien.”
I know. I watched his rage burn bright. I swallow hard.
“He’ll kill her.”
“No,” he says too quickly. Then softer: “Not yet. He’s unraveling, but he won’t risk the merchandise.”
“Merchandise,” I echo bitterly. “Is that what I am, too?”
His mouth opens. Closes. There’s something behind his eyes, something that looks like shame and longing twisted together. “No. You’re the reason I haven’t lost my soul entirely.”
That breaks something inside me.
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. “He’s going to put me in the auction.”
“I know.”
“He told me. After he—” I stop. My throat closes. “I can’t do it, Reese.”
His fists tighten, knuckles white. He looks like he wants to shatter something. His voice comes out broken. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“But I will.” My voice cracks on the last word. “Because I always do. Because I always survive the things I said I couldn’t. But this time… it feels different. Like the part of me that fights is gone.”
He flinches. And then—for a second—he starts to move. Like he might cross the line. Like he might take me in his arms, say something that matters.
But he doesn’t.
He sits back against the wall, fisting the fabric of his jeans like if he doesn’t anchor himself, he’ll unravel.
“I want to hate you,” I whisper. “Sometimes I do.”
“I know.”
“But you’re the only person who’s ever looked at me like I was real. Like I wasn’t just some broken doll in Damien’s kingdom.”
He looks up, eyes raw, voice fraying. “You are real to me.”
I want him to say more.
I want him to say we’ll run. That there’s a world outside these walls where I get to exist without bleeding.
Instead, he reaches into his boot and pulls out a small card. Not a key—just a swipe pass. It could be for anything. Or nothing at all.
He slides it across the cold floor toward me. It stops a few inches from my foot.
“What is that?”
