"It ended with you somersaulting into a coffee table," I remind her.
She points at me, vindicated. "Committed acting." Against my better judgment, my mouth curves.
Game night happens in a rush. Ruby digs out an old pad and half-dried markers. Frankie claims scorekeeper. Maggie declares it girls versus guys. Nash insists he's been coerced under protest as he takes a seat anyway.
Nash turns out to be disturbingly good at drawing farm animals. East guesses "threesome" for at least four separateprompts. Frankie's doodles look like eldritch horrors, and Darla somehow guesses "croissant" in under three seconds.
Ruby yells, "It's clearly a fire hydrant in distress!" while everyone stares at a drawing that looks like a crying phallic mushroom. My medical brain catalogs the anatomical inaccuracies against my will.
"Frankie, if that's what you think a human heart looks like, I am scheduling you a consult."
She grins. "It's interpretive."
Maggie takes the marker, draws something that becomes unmistakably a pair of boobs with a smiley face and an appreciative hand.
Knox chokes. "Maggie."
"What?" Completely unbothered. "Life doesn't end at fifty. Or thirty. Or ever." She caps the marker like she just dropped a thesis statement, then saunters back to her spot while half the room tries to decide if they're scandalized or taking notes.
Laughter crashes through. For a few minutes, it's easy to forget the war room, the docks, the girl who knew my old name. Knox slides onto the edge of the loveseat, thigh brushing my shoulder. His fingers ghost over the back of my neck, light but sure.
"You look less like you're about to bolt," he murmurs.
"Give it time," I say, but softer.
I'm just starting to believe we might hold this moment when Malachi's phone buzzes on the table. Once. Sharp. A blade through the noise. His hand closes around it. He glances at the screen. Whatever trace of humor was hanging around his mouth disappears.
"James," he says, and answers. "Yeah?" The room goes still. His jaw locks as he listens. "We're on our way." Low and final. He hangs up.
The moment breaks. Everyone moves at once. Boots hit the floor, markers are tossed aside, shoulders straighten like someone pulled invisible strings.
"What is it?" Candace asks, already on her feet.
"Donovan's car is outside the Holloway building. James says he's not alone this time."
I know that building. Victor's wife Olivia works there, and Olivia is Donovan's stepdaughter, the center of an obsession he's been feeding for years.
The girls go quiet. Maggie covers her mouth, fist forming before it drops. Ruby's eyes widen. Frankie's pen stops. Malachi looks at us, Candace, Maggie, me, Ruby and the rest, with that layered look that says he would chain us to the floor if he thought it would keep us safe.
"No one leaves this building. Lockdown until we say otherwise."
Ruby blinks. "Lockdown?"
"Not a drill, Rubes." Malachi's voice leaves no room for argument.
He tips his head at Knox, then Nash, East, Kyle, the others. The brothers start to move, grabbing cuts, helmets, and weapons with practiced efficiency.
Knox steps closer, knuckles brushing my jaw. "Stay here. With Maggie. With the others. If anything feels off, you call me, not try to handle it yourself. Got it?"
"Be careful."
His face softens, just a flicker. "Always, Turner."
He doesn't kiss me. I'm glad. A kiss would feel too much like goodbye. Then he's gone, following the others out in a rush of footsteps and steel. Engines roar to life. The sound rattles windows and vibrates in my bones. They pull away in a pack, bikes disappearing around the corner.
Silence spills into the space they leave.
Ruby collapses back onto the couch. "Well. So much for game night." No one laughs.
