Page 171 of What We Become

I lie there, staring up at the ceiling, counting my heartbeats as they slow. The gallery counter still glows, but I can’t focus on the number.

I reach toward Knox.

“Close it.”

He hits the controls immediately. The audio dies, the indicators go dark, and the glass clouds over, cutting a room full of strangers out because I decided their access was finished.

“How many people watched to the end?” I ask.

“Twenty-five in the gallery,” Milo says. “The audio went club-wide, so potentially everyone. Also, we exceeded the room’s previous occupancy record by three people and at least two confirmed orgasms.”

“There’s an orgasm counter?” Micah asks.

“There could be.”

“No,” Eli says.

“You don’t even know what I was going to propose.”

“No.”

Micah’s hands are already moving over the welts, checking each one. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He counts them, and when he finishes, he kisses the last one.

I curl into Knox’s side and drink the water Micah holds to my lips while the last of the killing energy drains out of me.

Holden checks his watch. “Almost six hours. The cover holds.”

A little after three, we walk out through the public entrance exactly the way we arrived. My dress is wrinkled, my hair is beyond repair, and every step reminds me of the five separate sets of handprints hidden beneath the fabric.

Anyone watching sees six people leaving a sex club after a very long night.

The only question is whether they saw us leave in between.

THIRTY-NINE

SAGE

The bell over the diner door chimes late Friday morning, and in walks Milo wearing sunglasses the size of dessert plates and a shirt covered in tiny cartoon sharks.

He slides onto the stool at the counter like he’s docking a yacht, looking offensively awake for someone who kept half the club up until three yesterday morning.

The year turned eleven hours ago. We spent it on the living room floor with takeout containers and a countdown nobody actually watched, and I was asleep in a pile of men before the confetti finished falling on the TV. Best New Year’s of my life. I missed most of it.

“Good morning, my beloved working-class princess,” he says, pushing the sunglasses down his nose. “I’m here for caffeine, affection, and covert intelligence gathering.”

The heart-shaped charm hanging from my narrow leather collar shifts against my throat as I grab the coffee pot. It looks a little over the top with my apron, but the new tracker lives inside it, and I agreed to wear it whenever I leave the house.

“Milo, what is this outfit? You look like a children’s birthday party got into witness protection.”

He accepts the coffee with both hands and a smile. “Fashion is subjective. Also, that was hurtful, and I will be discussing it with my support group.”

“Your support group is Micah.”

“My support group is a rotating panel of emotionally constipated men and one murder kitten with authority issues.”

I lean against the counter. “What’s the intelligence gathering?”

He lowers his voice theatrically. “Your birthday.”