Page 9 of What We Bury

“Shut the fuck up, Holden,” Eli snaps, his voice low and tight, like he’s two seconds from losing it. Tension rolls off him, his eyes flicking to the girl, then back to me holding her. This was supposed to go clean. Now we’ve got a dead rapist, a ruined suicide note, and a shaking woman covered in blood.

Holden chuckles, unfazed. “Don’t yuck my yum, Eli. Girl’s got some serious rage. Look at that—clean through the balls. If that’s how she handles a knife, imagine what else she can do. That right there is the woman of my dreams.”

The girl stirs in my arms, a small sound escaping her throat—not a word, just a whimper that cuts through the bluster around us. Her eyes are starting to focus, darting from face to face, and her body tenses again, like she’s realizing she’s surrounded. I loosen my grip a little, just enough to let her know I’m not the threat here.

“Eli,” I say quietly. “We need to?—”

“I know.” He crouches down in front of her, his face pale in the moonlight, hazel eyes shadowed. “Hey. Look at me. Can you hear me? You’re safe now. We got him. He’s not hurting anyone anymore.”

She doesn’t respond, just stares at him, then at the body swinging above us, blood still dripping in slow, rhythmic streams. Her breathing hitches, and I can feel the moment reality slams into her—the blood on her hands, the knife she dropped, the five strangers who watched her turn a man into a pincushion.

Knox folds his arms over his massive chest, still the only one with his mask on. Milo crumples the note and stuffs it back in his pocket. Holden watches the body swing, a dark grin still playing on his lips.

And me? I hold her because I’ve been where she is—shaking, bloody, broken—and I know what comes next. The way the world tilts and never quite rights itself.

The surf crashes. The rope holding Brock creaks. Nobody says another word.

THREE

SAGE

I’m not a person—I am a nerve-ending. A raw and twitching wire, the kind that zaps the first idiot who tries to touch it.

At some point, my hearing starts working again—the relentless roar of surf, the pounding in my skull, and someone muttering “fuck” over and over.

My skin comes to life and I can feel everything: the arms around me, the hard chest at my back, sand grinding into my knees. I’m wet. God, the wet—warm, thick, clinging. It reeks of copper and rot, filling my nose until I gag.

Every sensation overwhelms me. I want to peel out of my own skin, toss it aside and run. Instead, I claw at the arms holding me, nails scrabbling for purchase, until a low, calm voice breaks through my panic.

“Come back to us, baby girl. We’ve got you, okay? You’re safe now.”

The arms loosen, but don’t let go. It’s not Brock. This man is warmth and muscle, the rough scratch of stubble brushing my cheek when I risk a glance back. His face is more beautiful than handsome, his blue-gray eyes worried.

Did I die and this is my angel?

The smell of rot hits me again and I gag, and the man—this angel—leans me forward, palm braced between my shoulder blades so I don’t faceplant into the sand. As I puke up beer and bile, I realize I’m not dead. I’m very much alive, and the man who’s holding me is real.

No!

“You’re okay. I’ve got you. Breathe.”

I spit the last of it out, trembling. The guy’s hand hovers just above my head, not touching but there if I fall. My chest heaves. Saliva and snot run everywhere. I am made of leaks and pain.

Another man crouches in front of us, face stripped of his mask. His eyes are like autumn—angry, wet, gold and brown at the same time.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. It should feel intimidating, but it’s not. It’s more like he’s waiting for proof I’m not about to black out or start biting people again.

For some reason, I want to apologize. But my throat is shredded and all that comes out is a cough. I’m shaking so hard my teeth hurt.

Autumn eyes leans in, hands on his knees.

“We’re not here to hurt you.” His voice cracks a little. “You don’t have to be afraid. Not of us, anyway.”

Someone is pulling on Brock’s legs. I glance up and catch one of the men steadying the body while another saws at the rope with a bowie knife. They work him down fast, controlled, until he lands in the sand with a soft thump. The guy in front of me is still talking.

“Hey, look at me, please. Can you tell me your name?”

My throat closes. Color drains out of the world and comes back wrong. I want to pass out, want the blackout nothing to smother everything, but the stubborn thing in my chest keeps running even when all I want is to disappear.