Page 189 of What We Bury

“I’ll be back tonight. After my shift at the club.”

He leans down and kisses her, and I can’t not grin about it.

“Stay safe,” she says.

He nods.

“Try not to be too conspicuous!” I call after him. “You’re a six-foot-seven wall of muscle lurking around in broad daylight, people notice that sort of thing!”

“Thank you for breakfast, Milo.”

“You’re welcome, handsome!”

The door shuts. I turn back to Sage.

She’s watching the door with a curious expression. Her brain has switched on. I can practically hear it humming.

“What’s the recon about?” she asks.

I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to tell her. I do, actually, more than I probably should. But because there’s an unspokenrule among the five of us that Sage stays insulated from the operational side. She knows what we are. She knows what we do in the broadest sense. But the specifics—the names, the plans, the how and when and where—we’ve kept that away from her. Odin’s orders. He wants things “contained.” Protecting her is what he means.

But she’s looking at me with those steady gray eyes, and I think about the alley, and the promise I made, and the words that hit harder than any punch I’ve ever taken:Everyone decides what happens to Sage without asking Sage.

Fuck it.

“His name is Hudson,” I say. “Investment banker. Multiple accusations over the years—interns, junior staff, women who couldn’t fight back without losing their careers. The kind of predator who hides behind a corner office and a clean suit.”

Sage goes still.

“We’ve been working him for a couple of weeks. It goes down Wednesday at his gym. We’re making it look like suicide.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Processing. I can see her turning it over, fitting it into the picture of who we are and what she’s signed up for—not in theory anymore, but in practice. A man with a name. A date on a calendar. A plan.

“Wednesday,” she repeats.

“Wednesday. It’s locked. Odin signs off tomorrow, but the plan’s already confirmed.”

“And Knox is doing recon today because . . .”

“Final pass. Making sure nothing’s changed at the location. Entry points, camera blind spots, timing. He’s thorough like that. The man could surveil a parking lot for six hours and come back with a dissertation.”

She finishes her coffee in a long swallow and sets the mug down. Something settles in her expression. Like a piece of her life just clicked into a slot she didn’t know was empty.

“Can I help?”

A small shock goes through me. Not because the question surprises me—I’ve seen this coming since the night she turned Brock’s junk into minced meat. It’s the steadiness that gets me. No wobble in her voice. No flinch.

“With Hudson? No, kitten. Too many moving parts, too tight a window. Eli would have an actual medical event if we tried to add a variable this late. And honestly, this one’s been in motion too long. It wouldn’t be safe.”

“Then the next one.”

I set the coffee pot down. Study her face. She’s not performing bravery or trying to prove something. She’s just asking. Like she’s been watching us through a window for weeks and she’s done standing on the other side of the glass.

“You want in,” I say. Not a question.

“I’m not just scenery, Milo. You guys are out there planning and surveilling and risking your lives, and I’m sitting here making coffee and waiting for someone to walk through my door.” She meets my eyes. “It’s been three weeks of being watched and managed and walked home. I get why, but I don’t want to sit on the edge of this forever. I want in. I want to do what you do—get rid of the assholes the system keeps protecting.”

My stomach tightens, because nothing about this is relaxed. Stephen is still a ghost, Tyler is still circling Amy, and Sage is still the center of too many men’s bad ideas.