Page 52 of What We Become

I race back toward the kitchen, skidding to a halt in the doorway.

Holden is standing at one corner of the kitchen staring at a magnetic strip mounted to the wall. On it is a full set of Shun and Miyabi blades arranged by size and function. Each blade gleams under the cabinet lighting.

He picks up the chef’s knife. Tests the weight. Turns it. Runs his thumb a centimeter from the edge, checking the grind. Sets it down. Picks up the santoku. Does the same thing.

“Don’t say it,” he says, without looking at me.

“I thought you were in distress.”

“What can I say? Milo must be rubbing off on me because I swear I’m about to orgasm over some freaking knives.”

I shake my head, looking around the space. It’s professional grade, of course. Marble countertops run along every wall. There’s a six-burner range with a copper hood, double ovens, a built-in griddle, and a warming drawer. The island is eight feet long with a waterfall edge and bar seating for five. At the rear is a walk-in pantry through a glass door, stocked to the ceiling. There’s a wine fridge. A second fridge. An espresso machine with more buttons than Milo’s laptop.

Holden returns the santoku to the magnetic strip. His eyes move to the range. The griddle. The hood. The double ovens. I watch his expression cycle through denial, resistance, and what might be the early stages of love.

“I’ll inventory the kitchen,” he says. “See what we have in the way of provisions.”

I cock an eyebrow, glancing meaningfully toward the fully stocked pantry.

Holden ignores me.

Micah appears in the doorway, Fury leaning on his arm. His eyes land on the range and go wide.

“Is that a⁠—”

“Six-burner with a griddle?” Holden nods. “Yes.”

“And those knives⁠—”

“Shuns. Full set.”

A moment of silent communion passes between two men who have found their church.

“I’ll prep dinner,” Holden says.

“I’ll sous,” Micah replies.

“Agreed.”

I head upstairs.

The second floor has three bedrooms, each one more excessive than the last. The first two have queen beds, en suite bathrooms with rain showers, good linens, and mountain views. The third has a king and a private balcony.

I’m checking window latches on the landing when Eli’s voice comes from the end of the corridor.

“Uh. Knox?”

I head down the hall. He’s standing in a doorway at the far end, one hand on the frame, the other at his side. His mouth keeps starting something and abandoning it.

I look past him.

The room is smaller than the bedrooms, windowless, with motion-activated low ambient lighting set into recessed panels along the ceiling. The walls are upholstered in dark leather. There’s a padded bench along one wall, a St. Andrew’s cross mounted in the corner, and a glass-fronted cabinet displaying an assortment of implements—restraints, blindfolds, crops, things I can identify and a few I can’t—all arranged with the same curated precision as the kitchen knives.

A sex room. Odin put a sex room in the safe house.

The cross is bolted through the stud, not the drywall. The cuffs on the top shelf are lined and quick-release—the ones we buy for the club, because the cheap ones take skin. The room is well stocked. And from the smell of it, cleaned.

“This is—” Eli starts.