Chapter 8 · Run Now or Burn

The burner buzzed against my hip, and Dominic Castellane was staring straight at me.

Ten steps to the counting room door. He stood at the top of the stairs, sleeves rolled to his elbows, black holster strapped tight over his ribs. Outside, rain hammered the shutters hard enough to vibrate through the floorboards.

*Blood hits the estate tonight. Run now or burn.*

I’d read the text once in the glasshouse. It was burning a hole through my ribs ever since.

"You're pale," he said.

"It's cold."

"It's seventy-one degrees in here." He took the stairs slow. One deliberate, heavy boot at a time, like he was stalking something that might bolt. "Mara."

Rule number one from my old life: *Never hand anyone the bullet they can shoot you with.* Right now, my gut was screaming at me to shove the phone behind the baseboard and lie.

Except the message didn't say *Mara, run.* It said *run now or burn.* Whoever sent it wanted me out before the place went up in smoke. They had a timeline.