"It's eight, so I'd hardly call that dawn, and it's old habit." I crack eggs into a bowl, whisking them with more force than necessary. "Mom used to work morning shifts at the diner. Someone had to make sure there was food in the house."
The words slip out, an unwelcome reminder of before. When we were just kids trying to survive instead of... whatever the fuck we are now.
Cyrus leans against the counter, watching me with those green eyes that miss nothing even when he looks half-dead. "The others won't be up for hours. We're nocturnal creatures in a nocturnal business."
"Makes sense." I pour the eggs into another pan, grateful for something to do with my hands. "Can't exactly run a vigilante empire during banker's hours."
"Vigilante's a strong word." His mouth quirks into something that's almost a smile. "We prefer 'independent contractors.'"
"Right. Because that sounds so much better."
"It does on tax forms."
I actually manage a laugh. "You pay taxes on murder money?"
"Money laundering 101, Princess." He takes a long sip of coffee, and I see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes. "Al Capone didn't get caught for murder, he got caught for tax fraud. I just make sure everything adds up."
"That's... actually kind of genius."
"I know." The arrogance in his voice is pure Cyrus, and for a second, he sounds exactly like the lanky teenager who used to hack our teachers' computers to fix Jinx's failing grades. "We've got a whole network. Shell companies, dummy accounts, investments that look legitimate on paper. Kade runs the street-level shit, but I make sure the money stays clean."
"And the killing?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "How do you makethatlook clean?"
His expression goes cold again. "We're very good at what we do."
I suppress a shiver. Maybe there's no money to worry about laundering when you're accepting payment in the form of sex.
Do they do that with all their 'clients'?
The bacon's done. I plate it, add the scrambled eggs, and try to ignore the growing lump in my throat. Then again, I hired them to kill someone. Glass houses and all that.
"Bacon!"
Jinx's voice carries from somewhere upstairs, followed by the sound of feet hitting the floor. Hard. He appears in the kitchen doorway moments later, looking like a golden retriever who just caught the scent of food.
His hair's a disaster, even more than Cyrus's. He's shirtless, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and make it clear a Glock isn't the only heat he's packing, and there's a hickey on his collarbone thatdefinitelywasn't there yesterday. My eyes track to Cyrus automatically, but his expression gives nothing away.
Huh.
"Is that bacon?" Jinx inhales deeply, eyes closed like he's experiencing a religious moment. "Tell me that's bacon."
"It's bacon," I confirm, trying not to stare at his bare chest. When did he get that... defined? "I figuredsomeoneshould make breakfast."
"You cook?" Jinx moves to the counter, already reaching for a piece of bacon with his bare hands like a heathen.
I smack his hand away with the spatula. "Use a plate, you animal."
"Bossy." But he's grinning as he grabs a plate, loading it up with eggs and bacon like he hasn't eaten in days. "I forgot you could cook. Remember when you made us those cookies for Kade's birthday?"
"The ones he said tasted like cotton candy had an abominable love child with cinnamon?" The memory makes me smile despite everything. "Sweet'N Low packets weren't the best sugar substitute after all."
"He ate seven of them," Cyrus points out, claiming his own plate. "And then threw up in the RV."
"That was the vodka, not the cookies," I protest in defense of my admittedly limited baking abilities.
"Probably both."
We fall into an easy rhythm, and for just a moment, it feels like before. Like we're just three friends sharing breakfast instead of a captive and her captors. Jinx chatters about nothing, filling the silence with stories about some party he went to last week. Cyrus occasionally interjects with dry commentary that makes Jinx laugh.
