Chapter Seven Landon
The shower in Briar’s penthouse is twice the size of my old dorm room.
Glass on three sides, the city a million blinking eyes beyond, like a surveillance state just waiting for me to slip.
I wash fast, using the expensive soap—his, I assume, because it smells faintly like cedar—and towel off with linen that probably costs more than my monthly rent.
I have no clothes. Correction: my only clothes are the ones I came in with, ruined by sweat and semen and the desperate grip of last night’s hands.
I find a stack of black t-shirts folded military-neat in the walk-in closet, and pick the smallest one.
It still hangs off me like I’m a kid who stole his dad’s uniform.
I find a pair of track pants that hang loose on my hips.
I cinch them tight, roll the cuffs, and stand in the doorway, every inch the imposter.
The apartment is quiet, but not the kind of quiet that means empty. It’s that loaded silence, the one that follows a scream or a gunshot. I follow the smell of food down the hall, drawn by the most ordinary of lures.
It’s wild to think just yesterday I was downstairs in a massive ballroom, and today I wake up in a house inside a house.
My life is a dream.
Briar is at the stove, spatula in one hand, phone in the other.
He’s making eggs. Bacon sizzles beside him, fat spitting onto the induction glass, the smell making my stomach growl.
For a second, I can almost believe he’s just a man, not the thing that fucked me open and erased my old life with a few words.
He glances over his shoulder, clocks me in the doorway and puts his phone in his pocket. His eyes drag over the borrowed shirt, then the pants, then back up to my face.
“You wear my clothes better than I do,” he says.
I make my way to the kitchen island, feet bare and cold on the tile. The counter is spotless except for two plates—porcelain, matte white, probably custom—one holds a stack of buttered toast and a single knife and the other is empty. Briar points at the stool. I sit.
He flips the eggs, and I watch the motion: precise, efficient, not a single wasted movement. I wonder how many times he’s killed someone with these hands.
Has he ever burned himself? Cut himself by accident? Is this man even human?
He doesn’t talk as he starts plating the eggs, then layering the bacon on the side.
He slides the plate across the island to me. I take it, half waiting for him to tell me this is a joke. He grabs another plate, then sits across from me, not eating, just watching.
The eggs are perfect: the yolk barely set, the whites clean and round. I eat because he expects it, and because I am starving.
He waits until I’ve finished half the bacon before he dishes himself up a plate.
He finally eats, tearing the toast in half with his hands. There’s a quiet to him now, a sense that he’s running possible situations in his head, all the ways this breakfast could end.
I want to ask a million questions, but the silence feels reverent. Instead, I stare at the crumbs and try to act like I’m not slowly panicking at the thought of being his.
The doorbell cuts through the silence. It’s not a regular chime—it’s a low, heavy buzz that vibrates up through the floor, makes the silverware on the counter shiver.
Briar stands in one smooth motion, tension rising in his body. He checks the phone, then the wall, where a thin monitor glows just above the light switch. He taps the screen and the hallway camera flickers into view.
His face changes. All that warmth from the kitchen is gone, replaced by a cold, deadly focus.
He turns to me, voice flat. “Go to the living room. Now.”
I don’t argue. I stand, nearly knock over my stool, and move, my heartbeat a staccato in my ears.
He follows, one hand pressed to the small of my back, guiding me with more force than necessary. We cross the room—three couches, a fireplace, a wall of books—straight to the far wall, where there’s nothing but a blank expanse of black glass.
He presses his palm against a spot just left of center. There’s a hiss, then a seam opens, almost invisible unless you know where to look. A panel slides away, revealing a small room.
Briar shoves me toward it, fast.
I hesitate. “What is this?”
“Get in,” he snaps, voice louder than before. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
I squeeze into the space. The air is cool, recycled, and it’s dark, except for a faint blue glow from the strip light above.
He leans in, eyes level with mine, and for the first time since last night, he looks unsure.
“Stay quiet. No matter what you hear, don’t come out. If I don’t come back, wait one hour, then follow the left wall until you reach the elevator. Leave the city and never come back. Don’t stop for anything.”
He waits for me to nod, then seals the door. The world goes silent.
It’s not pitch black—there’s just enough light to see the contours of the room, maybe three feet deep, six wide. There’s a desk with three monitors on it and a laptop, but nothing else, just the faint outline of a keypad in the wall to my left. I listen, every nerve raw, for any sound from outside.
Curious, I touch the keypad. A screen flickers on, silent at first, showing a grid of security feeds.
Twelve in total, each a different angle on the penthouse: the elevator lobby, the main hall, the kitchen, even the balcony.
On screen, Briar moves quietly. I watch him cross to the bookshelf, where he pulls a slim handgun from behind a row of old hardcovers.
He doesn’t check the chamber; he already knows it’s loaded.
The front door buzzes again. This time, Briar answers.
He says nothing. Just pulls it open, steps back, lets them enter.
Two men, both in black. Not suits—something closer to military.
The first is tall, with cropped blond hair, the kind of jaw you see in toothpaste ads.
The second is smaller, eyes flat and unreadable.
Both carry holstered weapons, the kind that bulge against the hip instead of the chest. No attempt to hide.
I recognize the way they move. Law enforcement, or something adjacent. But not police. Not even private security.
The screen doesn’t pick up audio, but it doesn’t have to. The first guy says something, mouth hard. Briar tilts his head, playing polite. The second circles behind, scanning for cameras, alarms, maybe signs of another occupant.
They herd Briar into the living room, by the fireplace. The one with the hidden wall. I wonder if they know. I wonder if they’re here for me, or for him.
I want to run. I want to help. But I am glued to the screen, watching the story unfold in real time.
First guy keeps his distance, one hand on his own weapon. The second guy goes for the kitchen, poking through the drawers, opening the fridge. Briar just sits, one leg crossed, gun still tucked at his back, face neutral.
My heart kicks at my ribs.
I reach for the keypad, punch 911. It doesn’t do anything—probably reroutes to the building’s internal system. I try to listen, but the room is a vacuum. No sound at all.
The second guy comes back, nods to the first, and now they both stand over Briar. There’s a beat where nothing happens. Then everything happens at once.
One lunges, going for Briar’s throat. Briar leans back, lets the motion carry past, and brings his elbow up into the guy’s jaw.
Bone cracks. He staggers, but the other pulls a taser and fires point blank.
Briar’s muscles twitch, eyes rolling as he grins, and then he keeps moving—like the electricity is just another flavor of pain.
He rips the prongs from his shirt, blood already on his teeth.
The gun comes up, fast as a blink, and he shoots one through the knee.
There’s no scream, just a collapse. The second tries to draw, but Briar is on him, all teeth and hate.
The gun drops. Briar grabs him by the throat, slams him face-first into the marble coffee table.
The table holds, bit the guys teeth don’t.
First Guy tries to get up, slips in his own blood, clawing for the holster. Briar stamps down on the injured leg, and the noise that comes out of him isn’t human.
Briar turns, gun raised, and shoots him in the head. The body jerks, then stills before Briar turns on the crumpled mess by the coffee table.
He’s already dead, the force of being slammed breaking his neck as his head lolls at a weird angle.
Everything stops.
I sit there, hands shaking, watching the blood pool on the white carpet. Watching Briar as he stares down at them, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He looks up, right at the camera. Holds the gaze for a full five seconds.
Then he smiles and starts grabbing the bodies and pulling them down the hall.
I try to process what happened. My brain skips and stutters, replaying the violence frame by frame. The gunshot. The fist to the throat. The way that guys teeth fell from his mouth.
My hands shake. My legs refuse to move.
There’s a sound behind me, soft, a whirr and a click. I turn toward the noise and see the laptop. The lid is open. I tell myself not to touch it. I tell myself it’s none of my business.
But it is my business. It’s all I have left.
I move to the bench, drop down, and pull the laptop closer. Touching the pad, the screen powers on, the desktop awash in icons. No password, no lock screen.
I start with the first folder. It’s called “M.O.D.” I have to look twice, because the acronym means nothing to me.
Inside the folder are hundreds of files.
Some are text, some are video, most are high-resolution images.
The first is a series of photographs—surveillance stills of an academy, Westpoint.
At first, the images are banal: people in uniform, teachers on the steps.
Then the sequence changes. There’s a shot of the building at night, lit by emergency strobes.
Smoke pours from a hole in the roof. The next morning, the place is a husk, windows blown out, police tape strung across the lawn.
I open a text file. It’s a log, written in a weird half-code. I see my own name in the first paragraph, then my name, then a string of words that make my blood run cold: “Observe, report, escalate. If contact persists, activate Protocol J/11.”
I back out, heart slamming in my chest.
The next folder is called “Assets.” It’s full of faces. Some I recognize from the news: politicians, cops, a handful of lawyers. Every image has a note attached, a single line of black text. “Compromised.” “Under review.” “Flagged for disposal.” “Green light.”
I scroll faster, desperate to reach the end. The last row holds a single image.
It’s me.
The photo is from last night, just before the gala. I’m standing in the kitchen of my apartment, tie crooked, smile fake. The annotation is just one word.
“Dispatch.”
I just stare at the laptop. My hands tremble so hard I think I might drop it.
I want to puke, but there’s nothing left inside me.
There’s a noise in the hall—soft at first, then closer. I try to turn off the screen but I’m too slow.
The door opens. Briar stands there, chest stained with blood, hands raw and red. His eyes flick to the laptop, then to me.
He sighs, deep and slow, like he expected this.
“Oh, pet,” he says. His voice is gentle, but there’s no comfort in it.
He steps into the room, closes the door behind him, and I realize I am trapped in here with him, alone, with no witnesses, no cameras, no hope.
Briar crouches in front of me, one hand braced on the floor. His other hand cradles my jaw, thumb tracing the edge of my cheek.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I want to say something smart. I want to say anything.
But all I can do is stare.
He tilts my chin, makes me meet his gaze.
“Do you know what I do to people who betray me?” he whispers.
His breath is sweet, laced with citrus and iron.
I shake my head.
He smiles. “You’re about to find out.”
And then pulls me up and kisses me, slow and careful, as if he wants to taste every piece of my fear.
I let him.
Because I have no other choice.