Page 172 of What We Burn

Holden chuckles. “Not all of us, wildcat.”

Milo grins, stretching his arms above his head until his spine pops. “Hey, if this is how we plan ops from now on, sign me up—murder and ménage, the ultimate team-building exercise.”

FORTY-FOUR

SAGE

Fri, Aug 28 at 7:15am

Brock:

You killed me. You buried me. You blocked me. But I’m still breathing down your neck. Feel that? It’s just the beginning.

Istare at the screen until the words blur.

Same number. Brock’s number. The one I’ve blocked several times now, and it doesn’t matter because you can’t block a spoof. The block goes through, my phone confirms it, and then another text slides in anyway—same name, same number, same dead man lighting up my screen like he never left. Every time I think I’ve shut the door, it opens itself.

[Delete]

I toss the phone on the nightstand and press my palms into my eyes until I see stars. The anger is a living thing now. It sits in my chest like a second heartbeat, hot and restless, growing louder every time a new text lights up my screen and I have to pretend it doesn’t. Pretend to the guys that the silence from Brock’s number is holding. Pretend to myself that deleting is the same as dealing with it.

It’s not. Deleting is just swallowing the scream. And I’m so full of swallowed screams I can feel them pressing against my ribs, looking for a way out.

Tonight, I’m giving them one.

I make Milo come four times.

The first is fast—fucking in the kitchen, an explosion of need that has him groaning into my neck, apologizing between laughs, blaming it on the fact that I wore the knee socks again. The second takes longer, slower, him on his back and me riding him while he traces patterns on my thighs and tells me I’m ruining his life in the best possible way. The third is in the shower, my back against the tile, his mouth doing things that should be classified as a felony. The fourth is back in bed, lazy and tangled, more rocking than thrusting, both of us half-asleep already, his forehead against mine and his voice a whisper, I love you, kitten. I love you so fucking much.

By 11:30 p.m., he’s out.

Facedown in the pillow, one arm hanging off the mattress, breathing with the deep, boneless rhythm of a man who has been thoroughly, strategically emptied. His hair is a disaster. There’s a hickey on his collarbone that I don’t remember giving him, which means I was operating on instinct, which means it was good. It was all good.

And I feel terrible for what I’m about to do.

Not terrible enough to stop, though.

I slide out of bed one inch at a time. The mattress shifts and Milo mumbles—kitten or come back or possibly garlic knots—and then he’s gone again, sinking deeper into whatever dream he’s having. I pull on jeans, a dark hoodie, boots. The knife goes in the right boot, hilt flush against my ankle, the weight of it grounding me the way it always does.

The choker stays on the nightstand.

I look at it for a moment. The cameo pendant, cream and blush against black velvet. Holden’s gift. Milo’s tracker. A leash disguised as jewelry. I agreed to wear it because I love them and they’re terrified and sometimes love means letting people track you like a FedEx package.

Not tonight.

I tear a page from the notebook on the desk and write in the dark:

I’m fine. I’m safe.

I’ll be back before morning.

Please don’t panic.

I love you.

— S

I fold it and slip it beneath the choker. Then I stand there for a few more seconds, watching him sleep. His back rises and falls. His lips are parted. He looks young when he’s like this, all the sharpness smoothed away, the comedy and the chaos and the constant motion stilled for a brief moment.