Page 294 of What We Burn

Milo twirls the pen between his fingers. “Can we put that in writing so Sage stops calling Knox weirdly paternal when he checks the battery status?”

“I do not look paternal.”

Fury turns in her chair to look at me, gray eyes bright. “You do. Very disappointed-dad energy.”

I cross my arms. “It’s surveillance 101.”

“It’s part of his love language,” Micah says softly, and I glance at him. He’s smiling into his sleeve like he’s aware he’s pushing my limits.

Fury’s mouth curves. “Good to know.”

“Seems the matter is closed.” Odin stands, buttoning his jacket. “Congratulations, Miss Adams. Try not to stab anyone without authorization.”

“No promises,” Fury says sweetly.

Odin almost smiles. Then he’s gone—first out, as always.

The rest of us linger. Micah goes behind the bar and starts pouring. Whiskey. Neat. He passes the drinks around.

Holden lifts his glass. “To the newest official Hangman.”

“To Sage,” Micah says.

“To Kitten,” Milo says. “Officially the scariest waitress in America.”

“To Fury,” I say.

Eli doesn’t toast. He leans over and kisses her, slow and deliberate. When he pulls back, he says, “Welcome aboard, little savage.”

Fury lifts her glass. Her eyes are bright. Fierce. Odin didn’t say gone. He said receded.

“To the Hangmen,” she says. “All of us.”

We drink.

SEVENTY-SIX

SAGE

“Wait. Wait, kitten. Don’t go yet,” Milo says, grabbing my arm to stop me from going to the door. “Let’s watch for a moment. Your friend is about to pee his pants.”

He hits the screen feed on the tablet mounted beside the kitchen and the front step pops into view in grainy, over-saturated color.

For the first time since Tyler, none of them is coming with me or following in another car. The compromise took two hours to negotiate: the outing is in public, the choker stays on, my location stays live, I check in every hour, Jamie drives, and I’m home before sundown.

Knox fills most of the screen.

He’s standing just inside the threshold with the door cracked open only far enough to make one thing very clear: Jamie is not getting invited in. Knox has one hand braced on the edge of the door, his shoulders squared, his face shut down in that way of his that reads as more threatening than an actual snarl.

Jamie is on the porch trying very hard to look casual.

He’s failing beautifully.

“H-hi,” Jamie says. His voice cracks on the single syllable. He clears his throat. “I’m here to pick up Sage. For the margaritas. Which I mentioned? Earlier? In a text?” He holds up his phone like it’s evidence in his own defense. “See? There’s the text. I said I’d be here at one-thirty. It’s one-thirty. I’m punctual.”

Knox doesn’t move.

“I’m also the designated driver,” Jamie continues, the words tumbling out faster now, like speed will somehow outrun the six-foot-seven wall of silence in front of him. “So no drinking for me. Totally sober. Clear-headed. Very responsible⁠—”