Page 135 of Buried in Blood
The arbor looms like a throne waiting for its queen. White fabric drapes the beams, soft enough to hide a war. I slip my hand beneath the edge, press the device into the far-right beam.
Three.
My hands are shaking.
Back inside. Through the crowd. No one notices. No one cares.
I reach the last location—beneath the floral cascade in the main hall. Guests are gathering nearby, eyes on each other. Never on me.
I duck low, pretending to fix a strap on my heel. My fingers find the crevice beneath the arrangement.
Four.
All done.
The clutch is empty now.
My body isn’t.
It’s full of static. Of countdowns. Of ghosts whispering,you’re still not free.
I straighten slowly. My smile clicks into place.
And I head back toward the party.
To wait.
To burn.
To end him.
* **
I shouldn’t be doing this.
The thought runs laps in my head like a warning siren, louder than the music, louder than the laughter spilling out from the dance floor.
But I move anyway.
Past tables of champagne flutes and hand-rolled cigars. Past smiling faces and soft violin strings.
The weight of what I’ve done is buried deep in the hollow of my spine.
Four bombs. Four precise detonations. All it would take is one command from Damien—one twitch of his finger—and this whole dream would collapse in on itself.
And the blood would be on my hands.
Unless I do something.
Unless I choose something else.
I spot Dante near the edge of the tent, half in shadow, eyes scanning the crowd like he already knows something’s wrong. He doesn’t look relaxed. He never does. But tonight, he looks wired—coiled like a trap waiting to be sprung.
I slip behind him, my fingers grazing the edge of his coat.
“Don’t turn around,” I whisper.
He stiffens. “Harmony.”
