Page 207 of What We Burn

She grins up at me, presses a kiss to the underside of my chin. “Obscenely.”

When we get downstairs, the kitchen is a war zone of the best kind. Every burner is occupied. Milo is at the stove in boxer shorts and an apron, wielding a spatula in each hand like he’s conducting an orchestra. There’s bacon in one pan, scrambled eggs in another, hash browns crisping in a third, and something on the back burner that looks like it might be pancake batter or a chemistry experiment.

“Good morning, lovers,” he says without turning around. “Or good evening, technically. I made breakfast for dinner because we deserve it, and because planning murder on an empty stomach is a war crime.”

Sage slides onto a stool at the counter. “Is that pancake batter?”

“Blueberry. With a hint of vanilla and a splash of the good maple syrup that Holden thinks I don’t know about.” He flips a pancake with unnecessary flair. “Also, I made fresh-squeezed orange juice because I’m a god among men and you’re all welcome.”

Knox is already at the table, a plate in front of him piled with enough food to sustain a small army. He eats as though refueling is a tactical necessity rather than a pleasure. He nods at Sage when she approaches. She kisses him on the cheek. Something passes between them that doesn’t need words.

Holden comes in from the hallway, freshly showered, folders under his arm. He takes one look at the kitchen, at Milo’s apron, at the four pans and the orange juice and the stack of pancakes, and says, “Someone better clean this up after.”

“That’s future Milo’s problem,” Milo says. “Present Milo is an artist and refuses to be constrained by domestic expectations.”

Eli appears last. He looks like he slept, which is remarkable—his hair is less chaotic, the shadows under his eyes have faded to a manageable gray, and he’s wearing a clean shirt. He takes the coffee Holden holds out without a word and settles into his usual spot against the counter.

Sage looks around the kitchen, her gaze moving from Knox to Holden, Eli, and Milo. She takes them in slowly—the men who spent the night cleaning up her solo kill, fighting with her about trust, then followed her upstairs and made room for her in the middle of the bed.

She catches my eye and grins.

Pride swells first. Fear follows right behind it. She fought for a place at this counter, and now she has one. I want that for her. I also want to keep her wrapped in Holden’s T-shirt until the bruise at her temple fades and the guy who’s after her is long gone.

Milo sets a plate in front of her—bacon, eggs, hash browns, two blueberry pancakes, a drizzle of maple syrup. “Eat up, kitten. Full tummies before we talk murder. That’s the rule.”

“Since when is that a rule?”

“Since I made it one. Right now. It’s a new rule. Someone write it down—Oh my God! I can learn cross-stitch. We can hang it on the wall.”

“Absolutely not,” Holden says, and doesn’t look up from the folders.

Milo just chuckles, which means there’s definitely going to be a cross-stitch on the wall sometime soon.

I think about his mother’s kitchen. BLESS THIS MESS in green thread above the sink, and the men in matching turtlenecks who flinch when she reaches for her pocket.

Milo flips a pancake and hums.

I don’t say anything.

Sage picks up her fork. Takes a bite of pancake. Closes her eyes.

“Oh my God,” she says. “These are incredible.”

“I know,” Milo says. “Everything I do is incredible. It’s my cross to bear.”

“Odin sent it through while you were asleep.” Holden sets a folder on the counter beside Sage’s plate. “Whenever you’re ready, we can talk about the next target.”

Sage opens her eyes. Sets her fork down. Then she shifts her plate aside, clearing a space between us. She waits.

We gather around the counter.

“Rules first?” she asks.

One corner of Holden’s mouth lifts. He opens the folder and turns it so all six of us can see. “Rules first.”

Sage leans in eagerly. This time, she doesn’t have to steal the file.

FIFTY-THREE