Page 48 of Tusks And Conditions

She looks at me over the folder. The morning light catches the sharp edge of her bob and the dust motes floating between us.

"Where would I put my desk?"

CHAPTER 17

SABINE

The question leaves my mouth before my brain approves it. Just slips out, casual as anything, like I haven't spent the last forty-eight hours white-knuckling my way through every possible version of this moment. Like my heart isn't hammering so hard my ribs ache.

Where would I put my desk?

Jagger's face does something I've never seen before. The hard angles of his jaw go slack. His tusks catch the light as his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. Nothing comes out. The most feared bounty hunter in the Lower District, rendered completely mute by a question about office furniture.

I step past him into the house.

The front door sticks. I shoulder it and the hinges scream, a sound like metal dying. Inside, the air is thick with dust and old wood and something faintly green, like moss growing in hidden places. The entryway opens into a main room with wide plank floors, warped but intact, and a brick fireplace that takes up most of the far wall. The mantle is a single rough-hewn beam. Cobwebs drape from it like lace curtains.

I pull my notebook from my bag. The small one. Grid-ruled, spiral-bound, purchased in a three-pack from the office supply store on Ninth. I uncap my pen.

The main room is approximately fourteen by eighteen. I pace it off, counting steps, then jot the measurements. Ceiling height is generous. Nine feet, maybe nine and a half. Good bones. The phrase my mother used when she walked through houses she couldn't afford, touching doorframes with reverent fingers. Good bones, Sabine. Everything else is just work.

I write: Floors - sand and refinish. $800-1200. Materials only if we do labor ourselves.

The fireplace needs the mortar repointed. I crouch and run my finger along the joints between the bricks. Some crumble at the touch. Others hold firm.

Fireplace repoint - $400. Flue inspection - $150.

Jagger's shadow fills the doorway behind me. I don't turn around. If I look at his face right now, if I see whatever expression is living there, I will lose the thin thread of professional detachment keeping my hands steady on this notebook.

I move into the kitchen. Gutted is generous. Gutted implies someone took things out with intention. This kitchen looks like it was abandoned mid-thought. Cabinet frames line the walls with no doors. The countertop is a sheet of warped plywood laid over sawhorses. A single copper pipe juts from the wall where a sink should be, capped with a rubber stopper.

Kitchen cabinets - custom build or prefab? Prefab: $2,400. Custom: $5,800. Countertop: butcher block, $600. Sink and faucet: $350.

I open the notebook wider and start a column system. Left column: item. Center: estimated cost. Right: priority level, ranked one through three. Ones are structural and safety. Twos are functional. Threes are aesthetic.

The well pump is a one. The roof is a one. The porch steps are a one, because that second step will snap under Jagger's weight within a week and the last thing I need is to file an insurance claim on a property this far from civilization.

Porch rebuild - full. $1,800. Lumber, hardware, labor.

His footsteps cross the main room. Heavy. Deliberate. The old boards groan under him in a way they didn't under me. He stops at the kitchen threshold.

"Sabine."

I flip to a fresh page and start the plumbing section. The copper is a genuine asset. Copper lasts. Copper is predictable. Copper does not surprise you with catastrophic failure at three in the morning.

"The well pump replacement, depending on depth and flow rate, runs between eight hundred and two thousand. We'll need a water test first. Sixty dollars at the county office. Non-negotiable. I am not drinking untested well water."

"Sabine."

"The roof." I tap my pen against the page. "Full tear-off and reshingle on a structure this size. You're looking at six to nine thousand, depending on materials. Metal roofing is more upfront but the lifespan is forty to sixty years versus twenty for asphalt. The math favors metal."

His hand covers mine. The pen stops. His fingers are enormous, warm, slightly rough along the knuckles. Green skin against my pale wrist. The runic tattoos pulse with a faint amber glow that makes the dust motes floating between us look like sparks.

I read the notebook. The numbers swim.

"You're staying."

Not a question.