Page 172 of What We Bury

Nodding, he pockets his cell. “She’s frighteningly competent when she’s horny.”

I shake my head, amused. “I hate that I’m saying this, but fine. Finish the install.”

“I already have,” he says. “Consent-compliant depravity. Ready to go.”

I stare at it. The little red standby light blinks once. “She’s gonna love it.”

By nine p.m.we’re in the back room at the club, and the Hudson job is spread across the table like a board game designed by lunatics: Pinecrest locker-room map, camera-closet schematic, and locker forty-seven circled in red.

“Hudson is less than a week out,” Holden says, tapping the calendar. “Gym days he’s in by six. One of the last to leave. Real fond of the steam room. We get it done and the feed clean well before any of the staff finds him.”

“Rope’s sorted,” Knox says.

“The noose will go up over this shower cubicle,” Eli adds, tapping the page. “It’s not his usual, but we’ll block that off as out of order so he’s forced into here. Operationally, it’s a safer choice. Outside any open sight lines. Plus, it’ll take longer to find him. Reads like a man who was making sure he wasn’t interrupted.”

“Walk me through the choke points again,” Holden says.

Milo opens his mouth—and every phone in the room goes off at once.

A hard little chorus of vibration and notification pings.

“Well, that was ominous,” Milo says, reaching for his.

Knox is first to move, hauling his phone out. Holden already has his in hand. Eli’s eyes drop to the screen and his brow knits. I slide mine from my pocket.

Kitten’s Hangmen lights up across the top.

“Ho-ly fuck,” Holden mutters as I tap mine open and find a message from Sage.

A link. No message. Just a link, dropped into the chat.

My mouth goes dry. “Dean can’t see into her room, right?” I ask Eli, who’s already staring at his screen wide-eyed.

“No,” Eli says, too fast, too distracted, eyes fixed on whatever’s loaded onto his screen. “Can’t see.”

Relief punches out of me so hard my knees go weak.

“Thank fuck,” I breathe, tapping the link.

The screen opens.

For half a second, it’s dark and pixelated, the camera feed stabilizing. Then Sage comes into view.

I forget how to breathe.

She’s on top of the duvet in a white tank and tiny sleep shorts, hair spread over the pillow like a dark halo. The camera angle catches all of her—every inch Milo obsessed over—one knee bent, the other stretched long, toes flexing against the sheets. Her eyes go straight to the lens.

Straight to us.

My cock jumps so hard it’s painful.

“Jesus Christ,” Holden says quietly.

Sage’s mouth curves. Not a smile exactly. More like she knows what she’s doing to us and likes it. Then her hand slides down her stomach, slow enough to be cruel, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her shorts.

The room goes dead silent.

All I can hear is the faint buzz of the feed through my phone speaker and five different men trying not to sound wrecked.