Page 22 of What We Bury

Fuck. My purse.

Every ounce of borrowed calm unspools in a second. I take a rapid inventory. I had it at the party. Then I slung it over my shoulder for the walk home. Where did I?—?

Blood rushes to my face.

The jetty.

The last time I had my purse was when I followed Brock down to the water. I didn’t carry it home. I have no memory of picking it up after. Which means it’s still there, wherever it landed in the chaos—with my ID, my house keys. Myphone.

The phone someone answered last night.

Shit.

Fuck.

I break into a run.

EIGHT

HOLDEN

“Well, good morning, wildcat,” I mutter as Sage Adams, aka the woman of my darkest desires, steps out of her apartment building.

I’m across the street, leaned up against a parking meter with a coffee I’ve been nursing for the last two hours. Knox had eyes on her last night and confirmed she made it home safe. I took over after we finished at the beach, because apparently sleep is for the fucking weak.

The roommate calls out to her from their window, something about a bag and a uniform. Sage goes stiff for a second, then she turns and hits the pavement at a near-sprint. Her dark hair’s scraped back, and she’s wearing long sleeves in weather that doesn’t call for it.

Smart girl.

Full face of makeup, too. More than I’d expect this early on a Saturday. Covering what the long sleeves can’t, I suppose. But it’s the rest of her face that snags me—eyes wide, jaw locked.

Shit.

I dump my now cold coffee and push off the meter to follow, thinking about what she looked like eight hours ago: moonlight, blood, knife in her fist, sounds that weren’t quite human.

Not because watching her go full avenging angel on Brock was hot—though, sure, let’s not kid ourselves—but because she did it like someone who, under the right circumstances, could be as dangerous as any of us.

Would it be wrong to tell her how much I enjoy watching her draw blood?

She plows down the block, a blur of black denim and panicked energy. She doesn’t notice me tailing her. She’s fast for someone running on little sleep and a night’s worth of psychological demolition, but I’ve got longer legs and a decade of chasing people who don’t want to be caught. I close the gap in six strides and catch her from behind.

My arms go around her waist and I lift her clean off the sidewalk. She starts fighting before she even knows who’s got her.

Fuck, she fights good.

“There you are, baby!”

I spin her a full rotation, like she’s coming off a carousel, like I’m a boyfriend who’s been waiting outside her building with flowers and a big dumb grin. To anyone watching—the old guy walking his terrier, the woman jogging with a stroller—we’re a fucking adorable couple.

She’s rigid as a two-by-four in my arms, her ribs expanding like she’s about to scream.

“Go with it, wildcat,” I murmur into her hair, my lips barely moving. She smells like drugstore shampoo and fear, and I’m immediately hard. Again. This is becoming problematic. “There are people around.”

I set her down. She stumbles, catching herself on my chest, fingers splayed, heat bleeding through my shirt—and I usethe momentum to turn us toward the brick wall, blocking the sidewalk route without making it look like a fight. One hand braces beside her head and I lean in.

“You.” She glares up at me, the word spitting off her tongue.

This close, I can count her eyelashes. See the vein jumping at her throat. Watch her pupils blow wide as she processes who I am and what I represent.