Lyra sleeps as if she’s still running.
Her breath is slow, but every so often, a twitch jolts through her and I watch her brow furrow and her lips part with a soft, barely-there murmur. Like her body doesn’t realize that she’s safe now.
I exhale, running a hand over my jaw, tension still wound tight beneath my skin. I knew the news would hit her hard. I knew the second I looked up and saw the bar TVs switch from the game to the breaking news, saw the images of the bunker on the screen.
But I wasn’t expecting her to shut down completely like this.
She looks fragile curled up against the sheets, her breathing steady but too shallow, like part of her is still bracing for impact.
A dangerous, possessive feeling roars through me. I remember thinking before that this is something I have never felt for anyone but family. But it’s even stronger than that. This cuts into my very skin and burns like fire.
My phone vibrates against the nightstand.
The Stag
I’m here.
I glance at Lyra one last time before sliding off the bed.
The house is silent as I make my way downstairs and into the backyard, along the narrow stone path that leads to the rose garden my mother, Giada, loved to care for so much.
It’s getting overgrown these days, the blooms tangled together in a way that’s more wild than elegant. I frown. I should fix that.
The Stag is waiting for me.
He stands just beyond the roses, half in shadow, his hands in his coat pockets. Motionless. Patient.
He doesn’t rush into conversation. Doesn’t even move until I’m close enough for the moonlight to catch his features, angling across his face.
He’s who I called when this all went down. Because there are questions that need to be answered. Now. And he excels at this sort of work.
“I went to exhume the fucker myself,” he says as casually as mentioning going to the grocery store. “Just to be sure.”
My jaw tightens. “And?”
He lifts his chin slightly, eyes locked on mine. “It appears Arkadi was cremated.”
“That’s it?” I murmur hollowly. “That’s all you found?”
He lifts his shoulders. “Wish there was more to tell you. But there was nothing suspicious about his death,” The Stag continues. “He was stabbed in his cell during the night by a gang member already doing four life sentences.” His mouth twists slightly. “Who bragged about it after.”
Of course he did. That’s a badge of honor behind bars.
The Stag pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to me. It’s the medical examiner’s report of Arkadi’s passing: death by multiple stab wounds and massive blood loss. Signed, I’s dotted, T’s crossed.
I glance back at him. “That bunker they talked about on the news tonight. The two dead girls…”
The Stag nods slowly, his eyes stabbing into mine unblinkingly.
“The world is full of bad people,” he growls. “People who feel even less than you and I do.” He smirks slightly. “Copycats happen. Dahmer had easily a dozen.”
I watch him for a long moment before I nod. “Thanks.”
“Happy to help.” He nods past me up at the house, the sounds of the city humming around us. “How is she?”
“She’ll be fine.”
The Stag nods. Then, without another word, he turns and slips back into the shadows, disappearing into the night.
I make my way back inside, threading through the darkened halls, up the stairs.
Lyra is still sleeping, now curled up on my side of the bed, as if she reached for me in my absence.
I slip in beside her, watching the way her lashes flutter slightly and her fingers clutch at the fabric of the pillow.
She stirs, her body shifting under the sheets before her eyes slowly open and then find mine. The fear is still there, buried deep. A silent war behind her gaze.
I brush my knuckles along her jaw. “He’s confirmed dead. He’s gone, little dancer.”
I pull her closer, letting her head rest against my chest. She exhales, all the tension in her body finally unwinding.
Her monster might be slain. But now, I’m going to remove the last of his claws still stuck in her skin.
‘Come with me,’ I murmur.
