Chapter 22
Sloane
Knox always says he can tell what kind of day I've had by the way I cut vegetables.
Tonight, the onions don't stand a chance.
Two weeks since the warehouse, and the girls decided the best medicine for collective trauma was organized chaos.
I'm half dancing between the stove and the counter, bare feet sliding over cool tile, his T-shirt hanging off one shoulder.
The kitchen smells like garlic, tomato, and a whiff of mischief.
Music is playing low on my phone, something Ruby added to the girls' "Prank War Soundtrack. " I'm smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
My phone buzzes with the chaos coven group chat.
Frankie: This is a stupid idea. I'm obsessed with it.
Darla: If he passes out, I call not-it for starting CPR.
Candace: Film it if you can.
I bite back a laugh and set the knife down, wiping my hands as the familiar rumble of Knox's bike rolls up the drive. I move toward the front window. It's muscle memory; hear the bike, go to the glass, make sure he's home. The instinct is still there, but it's changed. Less terror. More… ache.
The sky is washed in gold and pink, Knox's black bike cutting through it. He swings off in that easy, predatory way, shoulders broad under his cut, helmet dangling from his fingers. He looks tired, but he still looks like mine.
He hits the button for the garage door, probably already thinking about some threat that needs tracing. Then the door lifts. And balloons pour out.
A carnival exploding in real time. Red, white, and neon-colored balloons cascade forward, bouncing off his chest, his boots, the driveway. One with a badly drawn clown face spins around and bumps his knee like it's personally offended him.
Knox goes stock-still. Even from the window, I can see his jaw lock.
His mouth moves around three clear words. "What the fuck."
I clap a hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking. Tears prick the corners of my eyes as he swats uselessly at the balloons, trying to wade through. One gets trapped under his boot and he nearly slips, catching himself with a curse that echoes through the glass.
I force my face neutral, spin away, and hustle back to the stove. By the time the front door slams open, I'm chopping onions like the picture of domestic innocence.
His boots hit the hallway with more force than necessary. "Sloane."
I keep my eyes on the board. "Hey, baby. How was your—"
He appears in the doorway, all irritated biker energy with stray balloon static clinging to his hoodie. A red balloon squeezes around his arm and drifts in behind him, a guilty accomplice trailing its co-conspirator.
"What," he says, measured and dangerous, "did you do to my garage?"
I blink, blade stilling. "Your garage?"
"Don't do that voice. The voice you use when you're lying to toddlers."
"I don't lie to toddlers."
His eyes narrow. "You lie to Ruby all the time."
"That's different." I shrug, scraping onions into the pan. "What happened to your garage?"
"A clown happened to my garage." Low, dangerous. "There are balloons everywhere. One laughed when I popped it."
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. "Maybe it was just the air escaping."
"It winked at me, Sloane."
I risk a glance. Red marker smeared on his jaw. From the clown balloon, probably. Absurd and weirdly adorable, and I desire to lick it off. Or laugh in his face. Both.
"Must've been a long day," I murmur, turning back before my expression gives me away. "Wash up for dinner. Food's almost ready."
He stands there, watching me as though he's deciding if choking on spaghetti is a reasonable punishment.
"Did you do it?" he asks finally.
"Do what?"
His exhale is pure murder. "You're enjoying this."
I allow myself the smallest smile. "I enjoy you being home."
A beat. Then a low, unwilling huff that's not quite a laugh.
He mutters something obscene and stomps toward the bedroom.
Throughout dinner, he glowers and smirks in equal measure, irritated, amused, and turned on all at once.
Every time I catch his gaze, it slides over my bare legs, up the hem of his shirt, and lingers.
Weighing whether to bend me over the table or interrogate me about balloon placement.
He twirls pasta without eating. "You gonna tell me why my garage looks like a serial killer's birthday party?"
I take a measured sip of wine. "Garage décor is a personal journey, Knox. I don't want to intrude."
He points his fork at me. "You and your little coven are up to something."
The word lands warm in my chest. Coven. Us. "We're just spending time together."
"Uh-huh." He chews, eyes on me. "Just remember, club motto is 'we pay interest on every debt.'"
I stab a piece of garlic bread. "Noted."
But I can't stop smiling. For the first time in a long time, I feel young, stupid, and reckless in a way that isn't lethal. And I'm not doing it alone.
The next morning, I'm in the kitchen again, hair twisted up, scrubs on, bare face still pillow-creased. Coffee in one hand, phone in the other as the girls blow up my notifications.
Ruby: How's Vice's clown phobia doing today?
Darla: Did he cry? Please tell me he cried.
Frankie: I will not enable bullying.…But also, yes, details please.
Candace: Odds on which one snaps first? Nash, Knox, East, James, or Malachi?
I type back, grinning.
Me: Knox did not cry. He did say "what the fuck" and like five different prayers though.
Ruby: My work here is done.
Frankie: It is very much not done. We haven't even gotten to the possum phase.
Darla: I get to help with the haunting, right? I have sage and unresolved trauma.
I snort into my coffee. Down the hall, bedsprings creak and a low, sleepy curse as Knox hauls himself upright. A drawer opens, slams. Hangers scrape. The bathroom fan kicks on, then the soft click of the door.
I know exactly what he's about to see. I'd waited for him to take the trash out last night, slipped the clown doll into the tub behind the closed curtain, its painted grin aimed right where he'd be standing when he pulled it back.
He hates clowns. I shouldn't know that. I'm not supposed to have dug under his armor that way. But I do. He mentioned it once, offhand, after some terrible horror movie. He'd stiffened a fraction too much when the clown came on screen.
I made a note. Not to use against him. Just to know. Now I'm absolutely using it against him. The coffee maker sputters behind me. I take another sip, listening.
Silence. One Mississippi. Two. Three.
"FUCK—" Less a shout and more a strangled, high-pitched sound I have never heard come out of my six-foot-something ex-military biker husband. Half shriek, half growl, all indignation.
My coffee almost comes out my nose. Floorboards rattle as he stomps down the hall. I school my features, wipe the smile off, and turn just as he appears in the doorway.
Completely naked.
Never made it into the shower. Hair sleep-ruffled, chest rising and falling, every vein in his forearms standing out in sharp relief.
"Sloane."
I press my lips together so hard they hurt. "Morning, husband."
He points a furious finger back toward the bathroom. "Why is there a clown in my shower?"
"Maybe he needed to freshen up?"
His eyes narrow to dangerous slits. He prowls into the room, and the air shifts. My back bumps the counter as he closes the distance, heat rolling off bare skin.
"You think this is funny?"
"Yes." The word slips out before I can stop it. My shoulders shake.
He plants his palms on either side of me, caging me in. Already thickening between us, brushing my hip as he crowds closer. Knox crowds out air, reason, and any lingering guilt.
"Every time you scare me," he murmurs against my ear, "that's another hour you're spending on my cock."
The old voice, the one that whispers you don't deserve this, is quieter this morning. Drowned out by heat and the way he's looking at me like I hung the moon and set his house on fire in the same breath.
I lift a shoulder, aiming for blasé and overshooting into breathless. "Doesn't sound like much of a punishment."
His control frays. His thumb strokes under my jaw, tilting my face up until I'm forced to meet those storm-dark eyes. For a second, his expression softens. A bright, dangerous look flickers there. As if he almost says it and stops himself.
He catches it. Bites it back. I see the moment he swallows whatever word almost escaped.
"Careful, sweetheart," he says instead. "You start enjoying this too much, and I'm never letting you get away with anything again." He's lying. We both know it.
I pat his chest lightly, like I'm soothing a large, offended dog. "Go shower, Vice. I'll make sure your new roommate doesn't follow you in there."
He leans in, presses a quick, hard kiss to my mouth, a promise and warning, then pushes off the counter, stalking back down the hall. He mutters something about "ending its bloodline" and slams the bathroom door. The shower comes on, water pounding tile.
I wait until the pipes settle into a steady roar, then pad down the hall on quiet feet. Steam curls under the door. I crack it open enough to see his shadow behind the curtain, big and solid and completely distracted.
The clown doll still lies where he left it, facedown in the tub. Biting my lip, I slip inside, grab it by its stupid plastic arm, and set it on the closed toilet lid, turning its painted grin to face the shower.
"Menace," I whisper to it, then dart out and ease the door shut.
Ten seconds later, his voice echoes down the corridor, incredulous and offended. "Why the fuck is it on the toilet now?"
I lose it. Full-body laughter shakes out of me, bright and sharp. The kind that leaves you breathless and lightheaded. I brace a hand on the counter, tears stinging my eyes.
I feel good. That realization scares the hell out of me.