Page 249 of What We Burn

“Not all. Only the ones who came last night,” he says.

The correction makes my stomach feel tight.

“How many accounts are left?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Knox’s jaw tightens. “There were thirty-seven active accounts in the local yard. Twelve answered Tyler’s invitation.”

“And Tyler makes thirteen.”

He nods.

Twenty-four local accounts left.

Plus the two men who came as guests.

“And that’s only this yard,” he says.

I think about Milo—his hands red to the wrists, his fever-bright eyes, the way he kept saying I fixed it like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone. Fourteen men in four minutes because some part of him believed that if he could kill enough of them, the threat would finally stop coming for me.

“Hey.” Knox tilts my chin up with one massive finger. “None of that. Not right now.”

“None of what?”

“That look. The one where you’re calculating how much blood needs to spill before you can breathe easy.” His thumb traces my jawline, rough and warm. “There’s time for that. Right now, there’s breakfast.”

I force a nod. He’s right. I know he’s right. But the knowledge sits in my stomach frozen, heavy and sharp-edged, waiting to thaw.

SIXTY-THREE

SAGE

Knox and I walk down the stairs together. The kitchen is already in motion. Holden is at the stove, cracking eggs into a pan like he’s been training all his life for this moment. He’s showered and changed, which means he’s been up since before dawn, which means he probably didn’t sleep at all. There’s coffee brewed, bacon draining on a paper towel, and a stack of plates set out on the counter in a line so neat it looks like a crime scene diagram.

“Morning,” he says without turning around.

I cross the kitchen and slide my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek to his back. He stiffens for half a second—Holden always stiffens, like affection is a surprise he hasn’t prepped for—and then his hand comes down over mine and squeezes.

“You sleep?” I ask.

“Enough.”

“Liar.”

“Enough for me.” He turns his head to look at me sideways. His eyes are tired but steady. “How’s our boy?”

“Making dick jokes. So. On the mend.”

“Thank God.” He lifts my hand and presses his mouth to my knuckles, slow and firm, then goes back to the eggs. “Protein first. Then we all talk.”

“Gloria’s orders?”

“Common sense. But yes, also Gloria’s orders.”

Eli appears from the living room, coffee already in hand, looking like he slept in his clothes. He takes one look at me and what can only be described as pained tenderness flickers across his face.

“Come here,” he says.

I go. He sets the coffee down and pulls me in, one hand at the back of my head, his chin resting on top of my skull. He doesn’t say anything. Just holds me and breathes and lets the silence do the work.