Page 234 of What We Bury

Knox watches the exchange from his cell. Says nothing. But when I look up, he’s watching me with this private little smile, like he’s proud. Or amused. Or just happy to see me do something as simple as text the guys I like.

I hearthem on the stairs before I hear the key. Four sets of footsteps I’ve learned to tell apart. Milo’s are quick anduneven, always slightly too fast for the pace. Holden’s military, deliberate. Micah’s quiet. Eli’s steady in a way that sounds like he’s conserving energy.

Knox is already at the door when they come through it, and I just stand there, looking at them all together in my apartment, shedding jackets, smiling my way. My men.

I cross the room, Milo’s grin lighting up his face, arms already spread for a hug. He scoops me up, spins me once, and nuzzles into my hair like he’s been starved of touch for a month, not a day.

“You’re all in one piece,” I say, sighing my relief.

“We are,” Holden says, stepping in next to Milo and leaning in to press a soft kiss against my lips. “Everything went smooth. Textbook exit.”

Milo sets me down. “You would have loved it, kitten. Guy tried to bribe us and shat himself. I wasn’t in the room. I was in the car on the cameras. So I got to see without smell.”

“Um, ew.” I laugh and he gives me a quick kiss and steps away when Micah approaches.

Micah doesn’t say anything at first, just tucks my hair behind my ear and leans his forehead into mine for a beat. “Missed you, baby girl.”

He kisses me, slow, both hands cupping my face. I want to melt. I want to cry. But mostly I want to crawl inside his skin and sleep there. I have never needed to feel a person wrapped around me the way I need Micah. And I love that the feeling seems mutual.

“You okay?” I ask when he pulls back, and he nods.

“I am now.” He kisses me again, just a press of the lips this time. And when he steps away, Eli’s there.

“Hey,” I say to him, offering him a smile. After what happened between us at the club yesterday, my ass is still a little sore. But holy hell, the look on his face. I’d give anythingto get him alone for five minutes—five minutes to remind him that whatever poison he thinks is in his blood, I want it. Need it. Maybe even in the literal sense, based on the way my heart picks up just seeing him in my doorway.

“Hey, little savage.” There’s a warmth in his voice now. A lightness I haven’t heard in him since the day we met.

I blush a little—which is ridiculous after all this man has done to me. And he bends and kisses my forehead, then glances at my mouth, and for a second I think he’s going to kiss me properly. Instead, he says, “Pour yourself a drink, Sage. It’s a good night for it.”

I nod, my pulse still racing from his nearness, and head to the kitchen cabinet where we keep our sparse liquor selection. As expected, it’s mostly almost-empty bottles of vodka and gin. But we do have an entire bottle of tequila we impulse bought but never opened because Amy was scared of the grub in it. “Everyone okay with tequila?” I ask, pulling it down along with a few mismatched souvenir shot glasses.

Milo perks up immediately, rubbing his hands together. “Perfect. I’ll handle the lemons.” He raids the fridge, emerging with a couple from the crisper drawer, and sets to work slicing them. “Where’s the salt shaker gone?” He’s spent so much time in my kitchen these last weeks, he’s memorized exactly where everything is.

“Oh. I may have done some nervous rearranging,” I say as I grab it from beside the microwave and slide it over.

With everything prepared, we line it all up on the kitchen table—bottle, glasses, lemon wedges, salt—like some post-kill ritual.

The guys gather around, the energy in the room buzzing, electric from whatever high they’re riding. Eli pours the shots, the amber liquid glinting under the kitchen light.

“To clean kills and coming home,” Holden says, raising his glass.

We clink, the sound sharp and satisfying. Then we lick the salt and throw them back. The tequila burns going down, sharp and familiar, chasing away the last remnants of my earlier worry. I suck on a lemon wedge, the sour bite cutting through the fire, and set the glass down with a gasp.

“Okay,” I say, leaning forward. “Tell me everything so I don’t feel left out.”

They do. In bits and pieces, overlapping like they can’t decide who gets to tell me which detail—the rag over Hudson’s mouth in the shower, his body going limp, the noose slipping around his neck while he was out. How they balanced him on the stool, waited for him to wake up. The panic in his eyes when he realized what was happening. The way he begged, offered money, pissed himself in terror.

“He cried like a baby,” Holden says, shaking his head with a dark chuckle. “After everything he’s done.”

Eli nods, his expression still wired but satisfied. “We gave him the names. Made sure he knew why. Then . . . stool gone. Done.”

I listen, absorbing it all—the dark thrill in their voices, the way they mock Hudson’s fear without a hint of pity. It’s deliciously uncomfortable, hearing the details, picturing the man dangling, choking, but there’s a twisted justice to it that settles something in me. These men—my men—did this. For the victims. For the world to be a little less broken.

I really want to be there next time.

“Shots again?” Milo suggests, already refilling glasses. We down another round, the burn easier this time, the warmth sinking into my limbs.

Holden sets his glass down with a grin, eyes locking on mine. “You know what would make this even better? Body shots.”