“It’s out,” I confirm, holding up the tiny metal rice grain inside its pool of saline. “If you want, you can throw it out the window or run it through the blender.”
She laughs at that. “You think you can blend titanium?”
“We have a Vitamix. Worth a shot.”
She leans forward, a few strands of hair falling forward. “I feel weird. Vulnerable.”
“I might have something to help you with that,” I say, turning toward the bedroom and gesturing for her to follow.
“What is it? Another swan necklace?” I look back at her and she’s pulling on her T-shirt, smirking as she follows me.
“If you’re that attached to me tracking you, I can put it back in,” I say, stopping in front of the dresser.
She shakes her head and gives me a half-smile. “It’s fine. Like I said, it just feels weird. I got used to having it. And now I don’t. My mind is running a bunch of what-ifs.”
“Well, now you’re in Stoneheart. There aren’t a lot of places you can go that I can’t figure out. I followed you around for years, remember? But to make you feel even more protected, I got you this.”
She tracks my movement as I pull open the top drawer and take out a square of neatly folded leather—a cut. Sized perfectly to fit a ballerina.
Emma blinks. “Oh, Bones. Is that . . . ?”
I give her a single nod as I unfold the cut and hold it up for her. “What do you think?”
She sits on the edge of the bed as I continue to hold it out—not just the cut, but the offer. The ask.
Her hand hovers above the leather for a second, then she glances up at me, brows tight together.
“What’s this for?” she asks, but I know she knows. Or maybe she wants me to say it out loud, to make me squirm.
I take a breath, my pulse weirdly jumpy. “It’s for you. To wear.”
She laughs, short and dry. “OK. But you need to say it, Bones. I’m the president’s daughter. I know how this works.”
“You gonna make me beg?”
She grins. “If I have to.”
I crouch in front of her, the edge of the bed pressing into my shins. “Emma Armstrong, will you do me the honor of wearing my patch?” I hold up the cut, turning it around so she can see the bold lettering on the rockers, proudly proclaiming PROPERTY OF BONES.
She quirks a brow. “You want to own the club princess? That’s brave.”
“I want to walk into that party tonight with you officially as my old lady,” I say, holding it out so she can slide her arms into it.
She stands up and shrugs into the leather, letting me settle it over her arms and shoulders. She half-spreads her arms and laughs again, delighted. “I love it.”
She’s twirling in front of the mirror now, the hem hitting her hips just below the waist, arms raised in a dramatic dancer’s pose.
“Property of Bones,” she reads aloud, then smiles. “Damn right I am.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She twirls into my arms and I kiss her, all teeth and tongue and bruised affection, hands sliding under the small of her back to hoist her against me. The leather is stiff, still new, with that faint chemical tang. I bury my nose in her hair, breathing in the sharper, cleaner smell of her. She’s laughing as I pin her to the wall, the cut flaring out with the force, and for a second it’s just us—no club, no meetings, no enemies lurking in the shadows.
Then she breaks free, grabs my jaw with surprising force, and pulls my head down until her lips are at my ear. “Fuck me like you mean it, Bones. I want to wear your cut and feel you between my legs all night at that party.”
“Challenge accepted,” I rasp, picking her up and tossing her on the bed.
By the time we arrive at the clubhouse, it’s packed.
