Page 265 of What We Become

Don’t scream. A hand over my mouth, his voice at my ear, the TV still going in the other room.

I tear the blade free.

“Save your tears, dear uncle,” I say, putting it back in and twisting. “Mine didn’t save me.”

EPILOGUE 1 — SAGE

Four months later.

The cabin smells like pine and cold air and whatever Milo is attempting in the kitchen, which, based on the smoke alarm going off twice in ten minutes, is either French toast or a cry for help.

I come down the stairs wrapped in a flannel shirt that belongs to Knox and a pair of knee socks. The living room is a mess—Holden’s files spread across the coffee table because he can’t stop working even when the nearest jurisdiction is forty miles away, Milo’s laptop open on the couch with seven browser tabs visible from the doorway, Micah’s book face down on the armrest, Knox’s boots by the door, and Eli’s jacket thrown over the back of a chair.

Evidence. All of it. That these people are mine and I am theirs. Even the mailbox at home says ADAMS now.

Through the kitchen window, I can see Knox outside splitting wood. Shirtless. On a freezing autumn morning. Because Knox runs hot and has a personal vendetta against the cold and I suspect he knows I watch him through this window every morning and has calibrated his schedule accordingly.

Holden is at the table reading something on his phone with focused displeasure—meaning Odin has probably sent a new brief. We’ve run three operations since the wedding. Last month, Eli and I took a target in Oregon. Milo still calls the assignment before that “the wettest Tuesday in recorded history” for reasons I’m choosing not to revisit.

Micah passes the kitchen window with an armful of split wood. Knox says something I can’t hear, and Micah laughs before heading back for another load.

Eli is still in bed. I left him there twenty minutes ago, sprawled across the mattress with one arm flung over the space where I was, mouth slightly open as he snored the morning away. I kissed his forehead on my way out. He didn’t stir.

“Morning, kitten.” Milo is at the stove, wearing an apron that says KISS THE COOK OR I’LL HACK YOUR BANK ACCOUNT—a gift from Gloria, who insists that “women belong on top of everything.” I’ve decided she’s an icon.

“Go sit,” Milo says, pressing a slice of bread into the pan with the back of a spatula. “We have French toast. Maple syrup. Side of bacon. And before you ask, yes, I know how to make French toast. I’ve watched seven videos and I’m choosing to interpret the smoke alarm as applause.”

“It went off twice.”

“Standing ovation.”

I sit at the kitchen table. Holden lowers his coffee, his free hand finding my knee under the table. “Wildcat.”

I lean over and kiss him, loving the firm press of his lips. “You sleep okay?”

He runs a thumb along my jaw, his eyes soft as they look into mine. “Always.”

Smiling against his mouth, I kiss him again. I like that answer. Months ago, he barely slept at all. But ever since the barn and that final night on the beach, Holden sleeps like a baby. We all do.

Well, except Milo. But that’s his normal.

“Breakfast is served!” Milo slides a plate in front of me. The French toast looks . . . fine. It looks fine. Golden, mostly even, the bacon crisp. There’s a strawberry on top that he’s cut into a heart shape because he’s incapable of not being extra about everything at all times.

I lean over my plate and inhale, and as soon as the smell hits me, my stomach does a full rotation, my mouth floods with saliva, and every cell in my body says absolutely not.

I push back from the table. “Oh my God. I can’t—sorry, I just⁠—”

I make it to the bathroom in time. Barely. The door slams behind me, and I’m on my knees on the tile, retching into the toilet while wondering why my body has suddenly decided that French toast is a war crime.

When it passes, I sit back on my heels, wipe my mouth, and stare at the ceiling.

What the hell.

I flush. Rinse my mouth. Walk back to the kitchen where Milo and Holden are staring at me with expressions ranging from concern to curiosity. I sink back into my chair.

Milo is the first to speak.

“Okay,” he says carefully. “On a scale from one to food poisoning, how insulted by my breakfast are you?”