X didn’t even look up from his cards. “He’s got a whole Batcave under the Hub, you know. Probably sleeps hanging upside down from the ceiling.”
Ghost kept moving.
“Hold up, man,” Jonah called. “We’re about to settle a debate. Which is more dangerous: wrestling a pissed-off cow moose in heat, or Boone before coffee?”
River shook his head. “You ever see Boone before caffeine? I’ll take the moose.”
“Definitely the moose,” X said, and Bear agreed.
“You’re all idiots,” Jonah said, but it was affectionate. “Boone isn’t that bad. Jax and Anson agree with me. So, c’mon, Ghost. You’re the tiebreaker. Boone or moose?”
He didn’t even blink. “Moose. Any day.”
River shot both fists in the air. “Told you!”
X flicked a pretzel at Jonah’s head. “Pay up, man.”
“Bullshit,” Jonah complained. “Boone’s nothing but a big softie under that scowl.”
“Obviously, you’ve never had that fucking scowl aimed at you,” River muttered.
“Boone’s gonna be pissed if he hears you making bets about him,” Jax said.
“Boone doesn’t need to hear about it,” X said. “What happens in the bunkhouse, stays in the bunkhouse.”
Ghost turned away, aiming to put the hallway and at least two doors between himself and the noise of his bunkmates, but he didn’t make it.
Oliver suddenly let out a dismayed squeal. “King! No!”
Ghost turned back in time to see the Leonberger, one hundred and fifty pounds of wet fur and zero impulse control, snatch Oliver’s drawing and barrel toward the kitchen like he was trying out for the NFL.
Bear lunged for his collar, missed, and the dog’s tail swept a cereal box off the counter in a single mighty arc. The box landed on Bramble, who yelped and darted under the kitchen table, knocking Anson’s chair sideways and taking the man with him. Anson flailed out to catch himself, and his hand found the dish rack, sending it flying.
Plates and cutlery shattered against the floor. Ghost’s mug—the blue one, the only thing he gave a damn about—cartwheeled off the counter, bounced once, and split clean down the middle.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Even King froze, tail wagging, tongue lolling, as if stunned by his own power.
Ghost stared at the pile of fragments.
He felt nothing. Not anger, not heartbreak. Just… blank. Same as always. The mug was just a mug.
Except… it wasn’t. He’d had it longer than anything else in his life. Now it lay there, split and useless, busted because a dog couldn’t keep his ass out of trouble for five fucking minutes.
“Sorry, man. That’s on me.” Anson started scooping up pieces, his scarred hands careful. “I should’ve just let Bramble sleep in my room, but I wanted him with me. I know how skittish he can be. Here, I’ll clean it up.”
“Don’t,” Ghost said, voice flat.
Anson looked up, startled.
Nobody said a word.
Not even River, and he usually had a smartass comment for everything.
Ghost crouched, picked up every sliver of blue, and ignored the worried eyes watching him like he might snap and trash the whole kitchen.
He didn’t snap.
Jax’s voice was quiet, pitched low. “Ghost, it was an accident, man.”
