Page 65 of Buried in Blood
Barely.
Harmony enters with her head down, wrists cuffed—not because I need her restrained, but because I like the symbolism. She’s dressed in black like she’s attending a funeral.
Maybe she is.
I tilt her chin up.
“You ready to be my shadow again?” I murmur.
She doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t look away either.
That’s enough.
I move past her, entering the medical bay. Anya is already strapped to the gurney, lashes fluttering. One of the newer girls is murmuring in Russian. The boy, sedated heavier than the rest, is lying in a cage we welded overnight.
Every lock clicks into place.
Every label is double-checked.
Every route uploaded to burners—one-time pings, timed to self-destruct.
North. South. West.
Enrique. Reese. Me.
I slam my palm against the table.
“Start final sweep.”
The team scatters.
Harmony lingers.
“You think they’ll chase you?” she asks quietly.
I grin.
“I hope they do.”
She doesn’t ask why.
Because she already knows.
I live for the hunt.
And I never lose.
* * *
The sun hasn’t risen yet.
Good.
I always preferred to move in the dark—before the world wakes up, before suspicion stirs, before eyes can track shadows that aren’t supposed to be there.
The Orchard is still. Silent. Empty, but for the ghosts I keep in cages.
