Page 182 of What We Bury

Milo is behind me, one arm slung heavy over my waist, his face buried in my hair, breathing slow and deep. Every exhale ruffles the strands against my neck in a way that’s both soothing and maddening. His body is curved around mine, knees tucked behind my knees, chest warm against my spine. He smells like popcorn and sex and everything I can’t believe I’m letting myself have.

Holden is in front of me. On his back, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. Even in sleep he looks like he’s on duty—jaw set, brow furrowed, like his subconscious is running threat assessments. The moonlight through the blinds cuts his face into sharp planes of light and shadow, and I watch his chest rise and fall for a few breaths, mesmerized by how still he is. Milo twitches and mumbles in his sleep. Holden doesn’t move at all. He sleeps like a weapon someone set down carefully and forgot to put the safety on.

I need to pee.

How does one extricate themselves from a man sandwich in the middle of the night without waking said men up?

I start the delicate process of pushing down the sheets. Milo’s arm is heavy, his fingers curled loosely against my hip, and when I try to lift it, he makes a disgruntled sound and tightens his grip.

I freeze. Wait. His breathing evens out again.

I slide sideways, inch by inch, like I’m defusing a bomb made of limbs and body heat. Once I’m on top of the cover, I shuffle to the foot of the bed and I’m home free. Then Holden’s hand catches my wrist.

“Where are you going?” His voice is sleep-rough, barely a murmur, eyes still closed.

“Bathroom,” I whisper.

He tugs me back up the bed, just enough to press his mouth to mine. The kiss is lazy, unhurried. Warm lips, the faintest scrape of stubble, the taste of sleep and darkness. It lasts three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough to make my stomach flip.

“Don’t be long,” he murmurs against my mouth, then releases me and rolls onto his side, already sinking back under.

I stand there for a second, barefoot on the cool floor, pulling my T-shirt over my head as I watch them both sleep. My body aches in ways that make me blush, but the memories make me smile. My lip is swollen, and there’s a mark on my collarbone—Holden’s teeth, his little brand—proof that last night happened and wasn’t some fever dream conjured by my deranged subconscious.

The bathroom is a blur. I pee, wash my hands, splash water on my face, and stare at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back looks different. Not just post-sex different, though that’s there—the tangled hair, the swollen mouth, the faint bruising. It’s something in the eyes.

She looks like someone who chose both men in that bed and did not apologize for wanting either of them.

I don’t know what to do with that yet, so I file it away and pad out into the hallway.

The kitchen is dark. I move on muscle memory—three steps to the counter, reach left for the cabinet, grab a glass, fill it from the tap. The water is cool and clean and I drink the whole thing standing there in the dark, eyes closed, letting the quiet settle over me like a blanket.

Then I see him.

A dark shape on the couch. Big. Still. The kind of still that only Knox achieves. He’s not relaxed, not sleeping, just existing in a state of perfect, predatory calm. He’s sitting upright, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. His eyes catch the thin strip of moonlight from the window, and they’re already on me.

My heart does something complicated.

“Knox?”

“Fury.” His voice rolls through the dark apartment like distant thunder, and every hair on my body stands at attention. I will never get used to the way that voice hits me. It’s not fair. No one should be allowed to sound like that while just sitting on a couch.

“What are you doing here?”

“Fury duty.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like sitting on someone’s couch at—I glance at the microwave clock—3:18 a.m. is a perfectly normal thing to do in the early hours of a Saturday morning.

“Fury duty? Is that what you’re calling me? Fury?”

He nods once. “Everyone has their name. That one’s mine.”

A smile curves my mouth as I lean against the counter, glass pressed to my chest. “I like fury.”

He doesn’t respond, but I see it—a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile.

“How long . . .” I set my glass on the counter and shift closer to him. “How long have you been here?”

He sits back. “Since my shift at the club ended. Did a perimeter check, came inside, decided I should watch from the couch for once—like you asked.”

Gosh. The night I invited him up here feels forever ago.