Page 98 of The Wild Card

We stay like that for a long time. The heating pad hums. Murphy purrs. Emmie’s breathing slowly evens out as the tension drains from her body.

“Crew?” she mumbles, half-asleep.

“Yeah?”

“You’re really good at this.”

“At what?”

“Taking care of people.” She yawns. “You should do it more often.”

I don’t know what to say to that. No one’s ever accused me of being good at taking care of people. I’m good at tactical assessments. Good at threat analysis. Good at keeping my emotions in check.

But this—holding someone, being present, offering comfort without being asked—this is new.

And the terrifying part is how much I don’t hate it.

“Just rest,” I tell her. “I’ll be here.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She’s asleep within minutes, her body warm and heavy against mine.

I should extract myself. Go eat dinner. Maintain appropriate boundaries.

Instead, I pull her closer and close my eyes.

Just for a few minutes.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Tell

Crew

Foster’s apartment smells like cigars and bad decisions.

“You’re smiling again.” Rodriguez points at me with a poker chip. “That’s three times tonight. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You absolutely are.” Staley throws in his ante without looking away from my face. “It’s creepy. Stop it.”

“I don’t smile.”

“Exactly.” Foster deals the cards with practiced efficiency. “Which is why it’s so deeply unsettling when you do.”

I school my expression into something neutral, but apparently, the damage is done. The four of them—Foster, Rodriguez, Staley, and Josh—are staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“It’s the girl, isn’t it?” Josh asks. “The roommate. Emmie.”

“She’s not—” I stop. Regroup. “We’re just—”

“If you say ‘mutually beneficial arrangement’ one more time, I’m going to throw this beer at your head.” Foster picks up his cards. “You’ve been different since she moved in. Admit it.”

“I haven’t been different.”