Page 35 of What We Burn

I have never wanted to kill more than I do now.

The urge thrums, gentle but insistent, like a headache behind the eyes or the slow burn of a fever. It’s not about justice anymore. Not really. I want to make someone hurt the way I hurt. I want some motherfucker on his knees, weeping, begging for a different sentence than the one I write in my head every time I look at her.

I bury my face in her hair and breathe her in.

“Don’t leave,” she says, lips pressed to my collarbone. Half asleep, a little slurred.

“I don’t plan on it.”

I hold her until her body relaxes, her breathing slow and steady, the post-orgasmic calm smoothing all the tension out of her frame. My brain won’t relax.

Before I know it, the clock on the nightstand clicks to 2:11 a.m.

She shifts in her sleep, pressing closer. Her breath is warm and even.

Alive. Here. Mine. Ours.

I press my lips to the top of her head and close my eyes, willing myself to rest.

I’m going to find him. And when I do, he’s going to wish he’d never learned how to tie a knot.

I’m almost under when the buzzing pulls me back.

Not my phone. Hers. It’s sitting on the nightstand, face-down, vibrating against the wood with an angry little rattle. Sage doesn’t stir.

I shouldn’t look. It’s her phone. Her privacy.

I’m not Milo.

It buzzes again.

I reach over her carefully, sliding the phone off the nightstand. The screen lights up and I see the preview before I can stop myself.

Unknown

How’s the throat?

Bet it would have hurt less if you’d let me fuck it.

The room tilts. For one full second, I don’t breathe. Don’t think. Don’t do anything except stare at the words on the screen and feel something black and ugly rise up from the base of my skull.

I type before I can stop myself.

Sage

Who the fuck is this?

Unknown

Don’t you know? Silly Sage. You thought you killed me? Guess again, bitch.

A contact card drops into the chat with a name and a photo:

Brock Davis.

ELEVEN

KNOX