Page 179 of What We Burn

I follow seconds later, buried deep, my forehead pressed to hers, both of us shaking and blood-smeared and probably damned but definitely alive.

We lie there. Breathing. The room smells like blood and sex and sweat—my favorite.

I lean in, nuzzling her neck. “Ah, the sweet scent of red body spray.”

“It’s blood.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re insane,” she whispers.

“You literally snuck out of bed to come and stab a man you’ve never met, and I’m the insane one?”

“You’re the one who fucked me next to his body.”

“You fucked me back.”

She laughs. Then she presses her face into my chest and cries—hard, shaking sobs that rack her whole body. I hold her through it, stroking her blood-matted hair, letting the comedown happen. This is the part most people don’t understand about what we do. The kill is adrenaline. The aftermath is gravity.

When the sobs slow down, I kiss her forehead. “You did good, kitten. He deserved every single one of those holes.”

“I fucked up, Milo. If you hadn’t come, I wouldn’t have been able to get up. And there’s so much blood.”

“There is. There really is. It’s . . . a lot.”

“I didn’t plan for this part.”

“I know. That’s why I followed you.”

“You knew what I was going to do?”

“Yeah. You weren’t exactly hiding it, kitten. When you plan a murder, you’re cagey as fuck.” I kiss her. It’s clumsy, hot with panic and devotion. “I’m so fucking proud of you. Like, kitten, you have no idea. I nearly started live-tweeting your murder to the group chat.”

“Oh my God.”

“I’m kidding—they’d be mad. But I did consider posting a countdown clock on the kitchen whiteboard. Days Since Kitten Disobeyed Hangmen Protocol: Zero. With your head on the logo.” I tap her nose. “I even had a meme ready.”

She punches me in the shoulder, then sob-laughs and wipes her cheek. The blood makes a smeary streak across her face, which—somehow—makes her sexier.

“Stop. My adrenaline is about to flatline and I’m running entirely on existential terror.”

“Want a juice box?” I rummage in the go-bag, find a Capri Sun, stab the straw through the foil seal, and hand it over.

She drinks it as I take a moment to look around the room with operational eyes instead of horny-boyfriend eyes. The main issue, aside from the body, is the mess. It’s everywhere. The kind of carnage you’d expect from two chainsaws and a wood chipper, not one five-foot-four waitress with a knife.

I do quick mental math as I look at all the blood. I’m thinking luminol, cells, absorbency, how much time we have before management comes knocking—and I know this is bigger than just me.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “So here’s the thing.”

“What?”

“I love you. I’m so proud of you. You are the most terrifying thing within fifty miles of here and I would follow you anywhere. But⁠—”

“But?”

“I thought I could handle this without calling in the others. I brought the kit. I’ve got bleach, sheeting, the works. But kitten—” I gesture at the room. “This is above my pay grade. Way above. This isn’t a wipe-down-and-go situation. This is a burn-the-building-down situation, and I don’t have the accelerant for that.”

“What are you saying?”