Page 91 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Aw, you lovebirds adopted a dog. Beagle with a li’l Jack Russell, yeah?” He cocks his head. “Be a good gator snack.”

A growl bursts from my throat as I drape my hand over Cosmo’s ears.

“Stand down,” Pell says with a chuckle. “Now why’re you interrupting my Thursday night crochet circle, and whose blood are you covered in?”

Rue and I exchange a glance. He’s talking to us from someplace dark and outdoors, so I doubt he’s serious. But with Pell, you never know.

I press a kiss to the top of Rue’s head and stand, Cosmo tucked into the crook of one arm. Pushing through the wave of dizziness, I flip the camera to show Pell the body on the ground.

He gives a low whistle. “The fuck did you two get up to tonight?”

Rue clambers to her feet too, holding the cut halves of her leggings together and pinching the bridge of her nose in irritation. “Can you please just tell us you’ll handle it?”

“Don’t I always?” His molasses-slow drawl evaporates as he shifts into work mode. “Text me the address, and I’ll be there with a crew.”

Rue pulls out her phone and starts typing.

“I don’t need both of you for this,” Pell says. “Bellamy, you stay. I want your day-job smarts. Mohr, go home. I sent you my doctor a week ago, and you still look like shit.”

He hangs up, leaving us staring at each other in silence until Cosmo starts whining. I set him gently on the floor, and he gives a little huff before trotting a few feet away, curling into a ball, and promptly falling asleep.

“Obviously I’m staying,” I say.

“Obviously I’m staying,” she fires back. “Even if Pell hadn’t decreed it, you need to rest. I was there on Friday, remember?”

“I remember,” I say softly. Rue on my couch, at my kitchen island, in my arms.

Here with me now.

“Hugo.” Her exasperated voice pulls me back, and I look up to see she’s swapped her ruined leggings for a fresh pair from her bag. “You faded out just now. You’re pale and squinting. Go home.”

“Cleanup is dangerous. I’m not leaving you alone.” I fold my arms over my chest and glare at her around my spiking headache. It… could be more effective. Another wave of dizziness hits, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Still, I say, “The only thing I’ve wanted for five hundred and ninety-seven days is to take care of you.”

Shit. I can’t pass that specificity off as a joke this time, but thank god she just slides her arms around my waist.

“And you can, starting tomorrow. Tonight, let me take care of you.”

I slowly let myself sag into her. “My head’s killing me,” I admit, resting my cheek on top of her head. “If I go, will you play with my hair afterward until I fall asleep?”

I didn’t mean to say that out loud, but it’s my favorite memory from our only night together.

She tightens her arms around me. “All night, if that’s what you want.”

“I do,” I say, completely serious.

“Deal. And seriously, don’t worry about me. The last time Pell gave me trouble, I lightly drugged him.”

“Really?”

“A tiny bit of paralysis,” she says breezily. “He got better.”

I laugh. “You and Quinn need to meet for real. He’s her favorite thing to complain about.”

The implications of my slip hit her immediately. “Wait, Quinn’s… like us?”

I straighten.

“Um.” Shit. “She’s, um…”