Page 229 of What We Bury

She moans softly around me at the praise, and the vibration punches through me so hard I see white for a second. Her eyes stay on mine. That’s the part that wrecks me. Not just her mouth. Her face. Open and intent and a little smug every time I twitch in her hands.

I slide my hand to the back of her head, holding.

“Easy,” I rasp. “Breathe through your nose.”

She does. Pulls off, drags in a breath, then licks a stripe up the length of me that has my head tipping back against the wall.

“Jesus Christ.”

She giggles. Actually giggles. Then takes me back into her mouth.

I’m gone.

“Fury—Fuck?—”

It tears out of me. I come hard, and I have to grab her shoulder to keep from bucking hard enough to shove her off.

My release spills hot over her tongue and the heel of her hand and my stomach, my whole body tightening around it. She pulls off when I guide her, coughing once, eyes wide and shining, and I swear I fall harder right there—watching her wipe her mouth with the back of her hand and then smile at me like she just won something.

“You okay?” I ask, voice wrecked to hell.

She nods fast. “Yeah.” Then she looks down at the mess on my stomach and laughs, breathless and delighted. “Wow.”

I huff out a laugh of my own and reach for the box of tissues on her nightstand. “Come here.”

I clean her first. Her lips. Her fingers. The little smear on her wrist. Then myself. She watches the whole thing with her chin tipped down and that post-orgasmic, over-kissed softness all over her face that makes me want to put her in my pocket and keep her there.

“You did good,” I tell her.

Her cheeks go pink. “I nearly choked to death.”

I grin despite myself. “You handled it. I’m proud of you.”

Her blush deepens, and I’ve never felt more for another human than I do in this moment. “Come here, Fury,” I say, dragging her against me.

SIXTY-TWO

ELI

Every Wednesday, Bill Hudson follows the same routine. He finishes his last weights set at eight-fifty, stretches for ten minutes by the free weights, then hits the locker room while the staff does their closing sweep. He showers. He takes his time. He’s always the last one out, because men like Hudson believe the world will wait for them, and so far, the world has.

Tonight, the world stops waiting.

We’re parked in the lot behind the building. A nondescript sedan, windows tinted, engine off. Milo’s in the backseat with his laptop, running the final check on the gym’s security feed. He hacked it three days ago. Tonight he’s looping the locker room camera to show an empty room from 9:00 onward. Tonight, security will see him leave early. But when they review the footage tomorrow, they’ll see Hudson walk in. They won’t see him walk out. They’ll find him in the morning, and by then the story will already be written, and the confession to all his crimes will be in his locker. His survivors will finally find peace knowing their violator is gone.

Holden is in the back beside Milo, his skull mask in his lap while he stares at the building, readying himself for what’s to come. Micah is beside me in the driver’s seat. He’s staring through the windshield, jaw set, running his own internal checklist. I can practically hear it ticking.

“Feed’s looped,” Milo says from the back. “Locker room’s dark. Staff are doing their final walk-through of the main floor. Hudson’s still on the bench press.”

“How many staff?” Holden asks.

“Two. Kid at the front desk and the manager doing the sweep.”

“We clear to go in?”

“Almost.” Milo’s voice is steady. Focused. The manic energy he carries like a second skin goes quiet on kill nights, replaced by something precise and cold. It’s a version of Milo that most people don’t know exists. “We’ve got three minutes before we need to get into position.”

I check my watch. 8:47.