Page 68 of What We Become

Holden’s arm tightens around my waist before I’m fully awake. His chest is warm against my back, breath slow in my hair, and for three whole seconds I let myself have it—the heavy sprawl of his arm, the steady drum of his heart, the impossible luxury of waking up feeling safe inside a dark room.

Then the wall of glass in front of the bed shivers as the tint bleeds out of it.

It drains from the edges inward, darkness rolling toward the frames like water circling a drain, and then the entire window goes clear. Morning light detonates through the room. The valley snaps into focus and I freeze with the sheet pooled at my waist. Knox has checked the glass from outside and swears it stays black, but my body doesn’t care. It feels exposed.

I drag the blanket over my head and groan. “We have to figure out how to turn that off.”

Ten days in the safe house and every morning still starts with a mugging by daylight. None of us have been able to figure out how to adjust the window settings—or even where they live.

There’s no panel in the wall, button on a table, or remote in a drawer.

Believe me, we’ve looked. Milo spent an entire afternoon dismantling a light switch that operated, to everyone’s astonishment, a light. Eli read the router manual cover to cover like it might confess something. Knox offered to shoot the glass, which—given this glass—would only have made the bullet feel bad about itself.

Under the blanket, Holden hauls me back against him, throwing one heavy thigh over both of mine like he’s anchoring me to the mattress.

“Smells like pancakes for breakfast,” he says, nuzzling the side of my hair.

“That’s my shampoo.”

“You don’t have pancake-scented shampoo.”

“I have vanilla-scented shampoo, and that’s basically the same thing.”

He chuckles. “Except this smells like cooking with butter and batter and fruit. So it’s either pancakes or it’s waffles.”

Ten days with nothing to do but exist in a cliffside mansion, and we already have routines. Micah cooks. Knox walks the perimeter. Eli reads on the deck while watching the perimeter. Milo hunts Stephen across every device he can coax online. Holden lies beside me without sleeping and pretends it counts as rest.

Stephen has given us nothing.

Just like the last time he attacked me, the man has gone dark. No sighting. No messages. No digital trace. Nothing.

I’d like to hope that means he’s tucked his tail and run. But I already know better. Stephen has proven he’ll just lie low until he finds a new opening. Our job is to be ready for him when that happens.

No more letting our guards down.

“I really just wanna stay in bed and sleep all day,” I grumble, turning so I can bury my face against his chest.

His hand moves to the back of my neck, thumb finding the rope scar there. He does that sometimes—touches it like it’s a case he intends to solve retroactively.

“Then stay,” he says. “I’ll bring you pancakes in bed.”

“I’d rather just have you in bed,” I murmur, tilting my face up and kissing him against his jaw. He lets out a hum of pleasure and captures my mouth with his.

The monitor on the nightstand crackles.

“Good morning, sleeper cell.” Milo’s voice arrives bright and caffeinated and entirely too cheerful for whatever hour this is. “This is your captain speaking. Micah has prepared breakfast. Repeat: pancakes are imminent. Blueberry, because somebody—” a pause, stage-whispered, “—it was me, I did that—left them sitting in the middle of the counter with a note that said ‘blueberry pancakes for breakfast in the morning.’ Also, Frank says hi.”

When Odin’s people brought our things to the cabin, Frank—the goldfish we won at the fair—was with them. He’s currently living on a windowsill in the kitchen because Milo insists he needs a view.

Holden groans into my hair.

“Also,” Milo continues, “the gate camera caught a sick-looking deer at four a.m., which I’ve named Stephen because I plan to go hunting later.”

Holden reaches across me and jabs the talk button. “Leave the deer alone.”

“The deer and I have unfinished business,” Milo replies. “He looked at the camera. Directly at it. He knows things.”

“Breakfast in eight minutes,” Micah calls from somewhere behind him. “And I’m not cooking anything he shoots.”