Chapter 9 Landon
Chapter Nine: Landon
Iwake to the press of a hand against my mouth.
Not hard. Not panic-inducing. Just there—just enough to remind me that my life’s not my own anymore.
I don’t scream, which probably means I’ve adapted. Or that I’m still half asleep and waiting for a better reality to drift in.
The room is black but for the thin knife of city light that cuts across Briar’s cheekbone. He’s leaning over me, forearm braced beside my head, the rest of him still and composed. I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel them, drilling through the dark, glued to my face.
“Wake up,” he says. His voice is low, measured, like he’s speaking into a tape recorder for extortion.
I’m awake. My chest is tight, my ass aches, my throat is raw with thirst and some other animal need. I lick my lips and sit up.
“Everything is packed,” he says. “We’re leaving. Now.”
He moves fast after that. Gone is the slow, muscular grace from before; this is business, not pleasure.
He tosses a black bundle onto the bed. Clothes—soft, expensive, not mine.
I pull the shirt on and wince as my shoulder twinges.
The pants are sweatpants, soft enough to hide the swelling at my hips and the bite marks that pucker my thigh.
I feel the urge to ask what’s happening, but he seems a bit pissy.
And my ass definitely can’t handle another punishment right now.
When he’s satisfied that I’m clothed, he moves to the closet and grabs two duffel bags, one black, one navy. They hit the floor with a thud, heavy enough to be full of bricks or guns or both.
“We’re not coming back?” I ask, trying to understand what the fuck the rush is.
He snorts. “Grab the blue bag, it’s lighter.”
I grab the navy bag, because I know if I try for the black one, he’ll take it from me and make some asshole comment about muscle mass. I shoulder the strap and follow him down the hallway.
The apartment is dead silent. No trace of what happened last night.
The carpet is spotless, the table wiped clean, even the air smells different—citrus and disinfectant instead of sex and blood.
The only proof that anything happened is in my body: the way my legs threaten to buckle, the ache where he split me open.
He leads me past the kitchen, where the breakfast plates are gone, then past the living room, where there’s nothing but the faintest impression of the two bodies that bled out on the marble. He must have cleaned it himself. The thought is both comforting and horrifying.
Opening a closet, he tosses me thick socks and boots before putting his bag down and putting his own on. I follow suite and grab a jacket hanging on the door. He nods and opens the door, leading us out and into the mansion.
It’s dark, but he leads with confidence, only stopping at an elevator.
Why a house needs an elevator is beyond me, but we step in.
He presses the button for the basement garage as I scan the panel. There’s four floors, a basement and a parking garage. This house is bigger than I thought. He keeps his eyes on the mirrored doors, jaw set so hard I wonder if his teeth will crack.
I want to ask, “Are we running?” but I know better. I just watch our reflections, the way his hand hovers near the waistband of his sweats, fingers flexing in and out. Mine are locked on the bag, squeezing until the fabric creaks.
When the doors open, the air is cold and sharp, full of exhaust. The garage is empty except for a single black SUV, matte finish, no plates. He pops the trunk, throws the bags in, then gestures for me to get in the passenger side.
The second the doors close, the cabin floods with silence. He turns the key, engine purring, then sits for a second, both hands gripping the wheel. He doesn’t look at me, just stares through the windshield at the dark wall ahead.
“We have twenty minutes before they hit the apartment. My cousin, Eve, called and told me that House Harrington has my back, but that the rest of The Silent are moving against me. Us,” he says. “If team one fails, they will send the Disposals. I am good, but I’m not that good.”
I swallow. “Who’s after us?”
His mouth twitches. “Everyone who is someone in this place. That means someone’s already paid for your death… and mine.”
I try to process this, but my brain’s a pinball machine, thoughts ricocheting off the memory of the last twenty-four hours. “I thought you said you were protecting me.”
He snorts, starts driving. “I am. But the system only believes it if I follow the script.”
“And the script is—?”
“Interrogate. Extract value. Dispose. I did what I could to get them off the trail, but it appears it didn’t work. No matter. I have places.”
I’m burning with questions. What is The Silent? Who are the Disposals? What the fuck is House Harrington? And yet I don’t ask a single one, because somehow, I just know he won’t tell me anyway.
No…
I’m going to have to figure the answers out myself.
Carefully.
He merges onto the street, never going more than two miles over the limit. Even now, he’s calculating which traffic cams are live, which side streets have better escape routes, which lights are timed for speed.
The silence stretches. I need some kind of noise, but I get the sense that Briar needs silence to think. Instead, I sink into the seat, every bruise and muscle still humming with last night’s lesson. My cock twitches at the memory, and I want him to destroy me again.
I’d never felt so alive.
I glance over, study the lines of his face in the dashboard glow. He looks… different. Less predatory, more human, maybe even tired.
I want to touch him, to see if he’s real. Instead, I grip the bag between my feet and watch the city fall away.
The farther we drive, the emptier the world becomes. High rises give way to warehouses, then to cheap motels and strip malls, then nothing but freeway and black sky. We don’t see another car for miles. He stays in the right lane, steady, always five under the speed limit.
At some point, I realize we’re headed west, toward the water.
He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t need to.
My mind goes back to the look in his eyes as he told me to get dressed. Not cold, not hot—just… empty. Like something in him had gone away, and all that’s left is duty.
I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know if I want to fix it, or if I’m just scared of what he’ll become when it comes back.
A mile marker flashes by. I lose count after ten. I let the motion of the car lull me, every bump and swerve a reminder that I’m not dead, not yet.
When the city is just a smear of light on the horizon, he finally speaks.
“Are you afraid? You don’t have to be,” he says, eyes never leaving the road. “Not of me, anyway.”
I want to believe him, but the memory of his hand at my throat, his cock splitting me open, is too fresh. I’m scared of everything, including myself.
“What about the people after us?”
He laughs, but it’s hollow. “Them? Always be afraid of them.”
I nod, not sure what else to say.
We ride in silence until the skyline is gone, swallowed by fog and empty space. I rest my head against the glass and let my eyes close, just for a second.
I dream of his hand in my hair, his voice in my ear, the sting of leather on my skin. I dream of the way he made me beg, and the way he held me after, gentle and unhurried, like I was something precious.
I wake to the sound of the engine shutting off, and the feel of his hand on my shoulder.
“We’re here,” he says.
I open my eyes.
We’re in the driveway of a house I don’t recognize, set back from the road, hidden behind a wall of pines. The air outside is silent, no city noise, no headlights but our own.
“Where is here?”
“Outskirts of Pineridge Resort. Friend owns it. We can stay here for a day at most before heading to my place. It’s too long a drive to do in one shot.”
He opens my door, waits for me to get out. His hand is steady on my back as we walk up the path, boots crunching on frostbitten gravel.
He opens the door, ushers me inside.
The place is empty, but lived-in: furniture that looks expensive but not new, art on the walls, kitchen counter littered with old mail and a bottle of scotch. There’s a fireplace, logs stacked and ready, but no fire.
He drops the bags at the door, shrugs off his coat, and stares at me like he’s expecting me to bolt.
I don’t. Curiosity wins and I head to the stack of mail and catch a name. Noah Cross. Means nothing to me, but I file it away to ask when Briar is in a better mood.
He rubs a hand over his face, then gestures for me to come and sit. I do, sinking into a leather chair that hugs my hips and makes my ass twinge. He pours us both a drink, neat, hands me a glass. I take it, the weight of the crystal cold and strange in my palm.
We drink in silence. The scotch burns, but it’s a good burn.
After a while, he sits across from me, legs spread wide, hands folded between his knees.
He studies me, and for the first time, I feel like he’s seeing me—not just as a problem to solve, but as a person.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I shrug, mouth full of smoke and heat. “I don’t know. That I’m alive? That I’m not sure if I want to stay that way?”
He snorts, then nods. “Fair.”
Another silence.
Finally, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You did good last night. And today. Most people would have cracked.”
I laugh, short and sharp. “You haven’t seen me crack yet.”
He grins. “Maybe tomorrow, then.”
We sit like that, the two of us, alone in a house that feels more like a bunker than a home. I want to ask him to come closer, but I don’t. I want to tell him I’m scared, but I know he already knows.
So I just sit, and drink, and watch him through the amber haze.
Outside, the world is ending.
In here, it’s just the two of us.
I can live with that.
At least for one more night.
The next morning we’re off again. Before the sun rises, we’re already gone. Heading to some unknown location that Briar swears is safe.