Page 33 of Dreadful

Bishop hasn’t moved. He’s reclined at the head of the table, one hand wrapped around the top of his mug, fingertips hooked over the rim like he’s keeping it from floating away. His eyes find Gage across the food. “Was it worth it?”

The question lands flat. Something shifts in the air around the table—a collective stillness.

Gage drags his thumb across his bottom lip, catching a smear of queso. His brow climbs. “What’s that?”

Bishop taps the rim of his mug once. Twice. “Going out this morning. Jeopardizing the family.”

Gage’s jaw tightens for just a second before his expression irons out into something dry. “Burritos are a threat now, brother?”

“When Devil’s Hand or the Widowmakers take you out because your girlfriend needed her coffee order, Ma’s going to unleash Rafe.” Bishop’s voice stays level, almost bored. “And I’ll be stuck cleaning up after you. Again.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to chew. Cruz breaks it with a low whistle, reaching for the salsa verde. “Who knew scrambled eggs would be the thing that takes us out?”

Bishop’s mug hits the table hard enough to slosh. “This isn’t a fucking game, Cruz.”

I put my burrito down, my appetite evaporating. The wet slick of guilt coats my throat.

Rafe shifts forward quickly, his grip tightening on my leg. “Watch it, brother,” he warns.

“Did I say it was?” Cruz takes a slow bite of his food and chews.

Bishop’s gaze moves across the table—Cruz, then Rafe, then Gage—like he’s taking inventory. “We know what needs to happen next.”

Coco’s gaze travels slowly between her sons. “Why wasn’t I looped in?”

“I’m looping you in right now.”

She drags one fingernail slowly down the side of her glass, pulling a long bead of condensation with it. “What’s your plan then, hm? You putting us on lockdown, honey?”

Bishop looks at her for a moment. Then he shakes his head once. “Not you. You’re going to take Troy and go.”

One of Coco’s brows climbs. Her expression arranges itself into something that wears the shape of surprise without quite committing to it. “Am I?”

“Palm Springs sounds nice this time of year.”

Palm Springs—the pseudo-code name for Coco’s mysterious trips.

Coco sips her mimosa slow and deliberate, and sets it down without a sound. “You kicking me out of my own house? After making family decisions without me?”

Bishop doesn’t blink. “I’m protecting you.”

“Mm.” The sound comes from somewhere low in her throat. Her fingernail finds the rim of her glass and begins a slow, patient tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“He’s not wrong, Ma. You’re safer somewhere else right now,” Gage says around a mouthful of food.

She turns the full weight of her attention to Gage, the way a spotlight swings. “Were you protecting me when you broke into the mayor’s house, shattered your hand, and left a trail of your blood across half the property?”

Gage’s chin pulls back, though his expression stays loose. “I was fourteen. There were like thirty people there jumping into the pool. And he wasn’t the mayor yet.”

Coco’s head tilts a single degree. The smile that follows doesn’t reach anything above her mouth. “Ah.” Her eyes find Cruz next, slow and inevitable as a tide coming in. “And were you protecting me when⁠—”

Something nudges my elbow, distracting me from whatever Coco’s saying.

Lola glances at me, her lips pressed flat. Should we leave?

I give her the smallest shake of my head back. No, not yet.

Her brows jump high. Perfect time to get the fuck out of this house.