Page 106 of What We Bury

“Good thing I don’t want decent.”

I stumble half a step.

He catches my elbow, steadying me like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just drop that into the middle of my bloodstream and set everything on fire.

“What do you want?” I ask, too fast.

His hand leaves my arm. “You.”

Jesus.

We reach my building. He stops at the base of the stairs and pulls my bag from his shoulder and hooks it over mine. “Goodnight, Fury.”

“Come upstairs with me,” I say.

He goes still.

“You say I like to be watched. So if you’re going to watch me all night, do it from the couch like a person who’s had his fingers inside me instead of from the street like a stalker.” I reach for his hand and tug. It’s so big I end up holding only two of his fingers, which should be ridiculous and somehow isn’t. “I’ll make coffee. Or tea. Or whatever giants drink. Maybe I’ll ask you to help me get undressed.”

He hesitates. Glances at the building. And then—small miracle—he lets me pull him. One step. Another. Up the stairs, his hand warm and rough around mine, and I’m trying very hard not to think about what those hands did yesterday, what they could do tonight. I reach the door, remember the lock is still half busted, and brace myself for the usual fight. But when I turn the handle, it gives at once. Either it’s unlocked, or it has finally surrendered completely.

The smell of garlic hits me.

Someone’s cooking.

I stop dead. Knox nearly walks into the back of me.

“Amy?” I call, because Amy is the only person who has any business being in my apartment with the door unlocked. “I hope you didn’t have trouble with the door. It’s been?—”

“Kitten!”

I freeze. “Milo?”

He’s at my stove in an apron that says KISS THE COOK, stirring something that smells good enough to make my stomach growl in betrayal. Messy dark curls, a grin eating half his face. When he spots me he sets the spoon down and throws his arms wide like I’m a soldier home from war.

“Welcome home!”

“How did you get into my apartment?”

“Your lock was a war crime, that’s how. A toddler with a library card could get in here.” He wipes his hands with theapron. “Don’t worry, I’ve handled it. Sit. Dinner’s almost—” His eyes land on Knox filling the doorway behind me, and his whole face falls. “Oh, comeon.”

Knox says nothing. Just looks at Milo. It’s a look with a lot of history in it.

“What?” I glance between them.

“Nothing. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” Milo’s already turning back to the stove. “I’m allowed to cook a meal. It’s a free country. Cooking isn’t a crime. Don’t you have a shift at Unholy Desires to get to? Can’t leave all those writhing bodies unattended.”

“You work at Unholy Desires, too?” I ask, turning to Knox.

“Security,” he answers simply, but his eyes remain on Milo. “You were benched.”

“I wassidelined,which is different, and frankly discriminatory.”

“Benched fromwhat?” I ask, looking between them now.

Milo picks up the spoon and waves it like he can shoo the question out of the air. “There’s a roster. A sacred democratic order dictating which devastatingly handsome man gets the honor of your company on any given evening. Tonight was decided by committee”—he shoots Knox a betrayed look—“and the committee, in its infinite cowardice, gave it to Detective I-stay-in-my-car-all-night-because-I-have-morals-and-shit.”

“Are you talking about Holden?” I ask. Then I turn to Knox. “Is he talking about Holden?”