Page 118 of What We Become

“We’re ready for you, kitten.” Milo’s voice comes over the radio, a soft crackle.

Sage grins—hungry, unrepentant, the kind of beautiful you only get when you’ve already been to hell and decided the devil is boring.

“You feeling ready?” I ask.

Her eyes are gray and steady and completely awake. “I’ve been ready since last night in the kitchen.”

The kitchen.

Fuck. My dick goes hard just thinking about her up to my wrist on that counter. I kiss her again.

“Then let’s go.”

We pull our skull masks down and walk up the driveway. Side door. Knox is already there—a shadow against the house that nods once when we reach him. The lock is dealt with. The alarm is dealt with. Everything has been dealt with because when I told the others what Sage needed, they didn’t ask questions. They just moved.

Inside, the house is dark except for the living room, and when we round the corner, Sage stops.

The room has been transformed.

Every surface—the floor, the furniture, and the walls all the way to the ceiling—is covered in thick, industrial-grade plastic sheeting, taped at the seams so clean, you can tell exactly who did it. Holden’s edges are razor-straight, the plastic squared into the same military corners he uses when making his bed. Milo handled the creative engineering, running overlapping panels up the walls, tucking them behind the curtain rods, and sealing them at the baseboards with duct tape folded into tabs for easy removal afterward.

And in the center of the room, wearing nothing but his underwear and duct-taped to a dining chair, is Tobias Freely.

His mouth is gagged. His eyes are wild above the tape—darting between the skull masks surrounding him, the plastic-covered room, the woman in the doorway.

Holden stands to the left of the chair, arms folded, mask on. His posture is parade-rest. Operational. But the moment Sage enters, his head turns toward her and something in the set of his shoulders shifts. It isn’t tactical. It’s anticipation. Not for the kill—for her. For what this is going to give back to her.

Milo is perched on the arm of the plastic-wrapped couch, mask pushed up on his forehead, legs swinging. He was told to keep the mask on, but he’s never been great at following directions. When Sage walks in, he slides it back down and tips an imaginary hat.

“Kitten,” he says. “Welcome to the party. Dress code is murder chic, and we took the liberty of unwrapping your present and setting it up for you.”

Micah is across the room with his back to the kitchen wall, mask on, hands loose at his sides. He nods at Sage.

Which reads, near enough, as I’m here, baby girl. However you need me.

Knox steps past us into the room. Crosses to the chair. Stands behind Freely like a wall that grew a pulse. He looks at Sage, and without a word, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out her knife.

“Fury.”

Sage stares at it. The knife she pulled from Knox’s boot and used to murder Brock. The one he gave her for keeps after that night. The one she’s used in every murder since.

“Got it nice and sharp for you.”

“Thank you,” Sage murmurs, taking the blade from him and holding it against her chest like he just presented her with diamonds.

The room is charged and quiet except for the fast, nasal panic of Freely’s breathing. Sage wraps her fingers around the handle one at a time. Then she lifts the knife over her head.

Freely lets out a muffled scream at the same time as Milo yells, “Wait, kitten!”

He hops off the couch, waving a pair of white painting coveralls in front of him. “I almost forgot. Before we unleash the beast—wardrobe change.” He shakes them out and holds them up. “These are supposed to be fluid-resistant up to—well, I didn’t actually test the upper limits, but theoretically, a lot.” He unzips the front and holds them open for her. “Step in, kitten. We didn’t plastic-wrap this entire room so you could ruin your good leggings.”

Sage stares at the offering.

“You bought me murder coveralls,” she says.

“I bought you creative expression coveralls. What you do in them is between you and your glorious heart.”

She hands the knife back to Knox—who holds it without comment—and steps into the coveralls. Milo zips her up, rolls the sleeves twice so her hands are free, tucks the hood over her head, and steps back. Then he tilts his head and nods like a stylist who’s just dressed a client for the Met Gala.