Page 132 of Gravehouse

He releases my chin. “And Asher?”

A blue stare flashes across the dark, followed by his wicked mouth and the warmth of his hand around mine.

“Target,” I answer.

He reaches for the strap across my chest, sliding his thumb under the buckle.

“What are you going to do, Mariée?”

I look into my father’s eyes. “I’m going to kill them all.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

ASHER

Ivy has lefttraces of herself all over this house. A black hair tie looped around the lamp stem, a thumbnail nick in the coffee table from her little party tantrum. Counting each one keeps my fist out of Atlas’s face, since he won’t shut the fuck up.

Atlas paces across the rug, grinding snow from his boots. “I told you.” He spreads his hands. “I fucking told you not to let her run off.”

My fingers close around the armrest. “Shut the fuck up.”

“You stood there and watched her go.” Atlas kicks the rug, missing by half an inch. “Barefoot. In a storm. After she just figured out who the fuck you are.”

I stop rocking. “You’re one shitty comment away from me fucking you up, Atlas.”

Atlas stops behind the sofa. “You’re sitting still. That’s fucking terrifying. How the fuck is doing the opposite of what we should be doing keeping you calm?”

“It’s working,” I tell him. “I’m only considering one murder.”

His mouth twists. “Hilarious.”

Someone hammers on the front door.

Atlas reaches inside his coat.

I rise, the chair still rocking without me. “If you shoot whoever found her, I’ll be annoyed.”

“If they hurt her, you’ll be more than annoyed,” Atlas mutters, following me into the hall.

I unlock the door and pull it open.

Leon stands on the step, Punk at his left in a beanie. Luce grips Punk’s elbow, and Jord shoves to the front of them, fury hardening his face.

“What is happening?”

“I’m sure your friends have a lot to tell you,” I say to Jord, lifting a brow at Leon.

“Shut up, Delacroix,” Leon snaps, pushing inside with the rest trailing behind him.

I slam the door shut.

“Why the fuck did you let her run?” Leon asks, clinking bottles at the bar in the corner of the living room.

Here we go. Another fucking round of questions.

“I didn’t,” I say, snatching the freshly poured whiskey and dropping back into the rocking chair. “I was going to get her but she was gone.”