Page 97 of What We Burn

He nods once, then lowers to the floor beside the bed, his back against the mattress.

Close enough to reach. Far enough to honor what he hasn’t earned yet.

Her hand drops off the edge of the bed. Fingers loose in the dark, hanging in the space between them.

Eli looks at her hand for a long time.

Then he hooks his pinky into hers and rests his head against the mattress.

And he stays.

TWENTY-SIX

SAGE

Tue, Aug 04 at 8:24am

Brock:

How’s the neck healing, pet? Bet it itches. Bet you still wake in the night gasping for me.

[delete]

“Holy shit. I was starting to think I wouldn’t see you in here again.”

Jamie is in his favorite booth—laptop open, empty mug pushed to the side, a paperback facedown on the table. His whole face lights up when he sees me, that easy, uncomplicated grin that makes me feel like the most normal person on earth, and I didn’t realize how much I needed that until right now.

“I’m hard to get rid of,” I say. My voice is still rough. Not the shredded whisper it was two weeks ago. More like I’ve been chain-smoking for forty years and gargling gravel as a nightcap. Sexy in a phone-sex-operator way, if the phone-sex operator had recently been strangled half to death.

“Get over here.” He stands and pulls me into a hug before I can get my apron on. He smells like coffee and dryer sheets and normalcy. He holds on for a beat, and when he pulls back, his eyes do a quick sweep of my face.

“Welcome back to the office,” he says. “You look good.” He sounds like he means it.

“I look like a ghost who got into a bar fight, but thank you.”

He laughs. Sits back down. His eyes catch on my neck and stay there as he examines the pendant.

“That’s beautiful.” He nods at the choker. “Gift from one of your guys?”

I touch it without thinking. The velvet is soft under my fingertips, wide enough to cover the worst of the remaining damage—the pink, ropy line where the skin has healed fresh. The cameo attached to it is antique, cream and blush against a black oval, a woman’s profile carved in relief. It’s the kind of thing you’d find in a jewelry case at an estate sale, tucked between brooches and tarnished lockets. Holden said he found it in a vintage store and knew it would be perfect on me. Personally, I think he likes the idea of being around my throat even when he isn’t touching me.

“Holden,” I say.

“The cop?”

“Detective.”

Jamie picks up his mug, realizes it’s empty, and sets it back down. “Smart man. Covers the marks and makes a statement at the same time.”

You have no idea.

He doesn’t know the half of it. He doesn’t know that the choker was the final concession in a negotiation that took up our entire Sunday, half of Monday, and nearly ended with me throwing a plate at Knox’s head.

The guys didn’t want me leaving the house without one of them attached to my hip. Full stop. Not for work, not for groceries, not to stand alone on the porch. Five men, five variations of absolutely not, it’s too dangerous, we don’t know who’s out there, delivered in tones ranging from Knox’s quiet, immovable “No” to Milo’s twelve-minute PowerPoint presentation on why I needed twenty-four-seven protection, complete with risk-assessment charts.

There was even a slide entitled “Reasons Kitten Should Not Die” that was just a list of all the sexual acts we still had to try.

I’d sat through all of it. The video call with Odin, the debrief after, the kitchen-table argument that went in circles until I wanted to scream. They’d conceded on the operations, but apparently were fine with keeping me locked in Holden’s house like a princess in a tower.