Page 60 of What We Bury

“The most valuable.” He gives me a small smile. “Plus, I make a mean martini.”

I laugh and the sound surprises both of us. It’s rusty and a little broken, but it feels good.

“Thank you for telling me. And for . . . not being weird about the kiss.”

“That was a heavy first conversation,” he whispers. “But the kiss was perfect. My favorite part, if I’m honest.”

I let out a laugh and squeeze his hand. “I don’t know what came over me. I guess you made me feel . . .” I search for the right words. “Less alone.”

He’s quiet for a moment. His thumb traces a slow circle on the back of my hand.

“It happened to me before too,” I admit. “Before I came here. Before Brock. That’s why I moved. I was trying to start over.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“Of course you know. Holden pulled my file.”

“He sure did.”

I should be angry about that. Violated. But right now, sitting in the dark with my hand in his, and the taste of him on my lips, I’m . . . relieved. Relieved that I don’t have to explain. That someone already knows the worst thing I’ve been carrying and isn’t running away from it.

“So the card,” I say, because I need to talk about something else before I start crying again. “Who did it call?”

“Odin.” He watches my face, gauging my reaction. “He’s our boss.”

I pull my head back. “The Hangmen have a boss?”

He nods.

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, but Micah just gives me a small tilt of his eyebrows—like, surprise, bitches, we’re actually organized.

“Odin?” I ask, and for some reason the word tastes rich and dark on my tongue, like the punch in a good whiskey. “Is that his real name?”

“No. It’s a codename. But he’s the guy who bankrolls us and points us to our next target.”

“So you all knew what Brock was?”

He nods. “We were hunting him.”

I look down at my bare arms and watch the goosebumps march up the skin. “Does that mean you would’ve—you guys would’ve killed him even if I hadn’t . . .?”

“It’s the sole reason we were there.”

I don’t know what to say to that. So I don’t say anything. I just sit there, holding his hand, letting his words settle into the cracks of me. I want to ask a million follow-ups, but a yawn catches me off guard—huge and jaw-cracking. Micah laughs softly.

“I should let you sleep,” he says. “It’s late. Or early. Whatever this is.”

He starts to pull his hand away, starts to stand, and I feel the absence of him before he’s even gone. The cold rushing back in. The dark pressing closer.

“Micah?”

He stops. Looks at me.

“Would you . . .” I swallow. This is stupid. This is needy and pathetic and everything I swore I wouldn’t be. “Would you mind staying? Just . . . hold me. Until I fall asleep.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. I can see him weighing it—the implications, the complications, the thousand ways this could go wrong. But then something in his face softens, and he nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can do that.”