52. Micah
FIFTY-TWO
MICAH
Something smells like bacon.
I surface slow, coming up in layers. First the warmth.
Then the weight of her against me, her back curved into my chest, my arm draped over her waist, our legs tangled in a way that’s going to require a negotiation to undo.
Then the light—amber and low, late afternoon sun coming through the gap in the curtains, painting a stripe across the floor.
The bed is quieter than when all six of us collapsed into it at sunrise. The others have already peeled themselves out one by one, leaving cooling dents in the mattress and the two of us tangled in the middle.
We’ve slept the whole day. I don’t remember the last time I did that.
Even when my bar shifts run into the early hours, I’m up in the a.m. Sleeping past noon feels like a moral failing.
But Sage is still pressed against me, breathing in that deep, even rhythm that means she’s actually resting—not faking it, not lying still and waiting for the next crisis—and I couldn’t have moved even if the house was on fire.
The bacon smell gets stronger. Someone’s cooking.
There’s the clatter of pans, the hiss of oil, and underneath it, Milo humming something I can’t quite place.
He’s the only person I know who hums while he cooks.
Knox is silent in the kitchen. Holden is methodical.
Eli doesn’t cook at all—he makes drinks, orders takeout or scoops ice cream.
But Milo treats every meal like a performance, soundtrack included.
Sage shifts against me and makes a small sound. She’s in that liminal space where her guard is down and her body is soft and warm and unmarked by the things she carries when she’s vertical.
Except she is marked. I can feel them under my fingertips—the raised line of the paddle welts across her ass, the faint abrasion at her wrists from the cuffs, the swollen bruise at her temple, purple spreading beneath the skin.
A map of last night written on her skin, and every mark besides the bruise on her temple was put there by someone who loves her.
I don’t know what that says about us. I don’t know if I want to.
My thumb traces a slow circle on her hip. She stirs.
“What time is it?” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
“Late. Almost dinner, I think.”
“Dinner?” She turns her head to look at me, her face creased from the pillow. Her hair is a disaster, tangled, sticking up on one side in a way that makes her look about nineteen. “We slept all day? I was supposed to go to work.”
“I can guarantee you one of the guys called in sick for you. You needed rest.”
“You needed it too.” She wriggles closer to me, and I hold her tighter, feeling her heartbeat. “Last night was a lot, huh?”
“It was, baby girl.” I drop a gentle kiss on the back of her neck, right above the collar she’s still wearing. “But we made it through okay. Even if that bastard did get one good shot in.” I touch the bruising at her temple.
I almost expect her to flinch, but she just grins. “You should see the other guy.”
I laugh, and it aches behind my ribs, a tightness that feels too much like relief.
Somewhere along the way, her pain became mine.
I don’t know when it happened, but now I count every bruise like a tally against myself.
I run my hand down her arm, palm open so she can pull away if she wants to. She never does.
“Can we just . . . stay like this for a bit?” she whispers.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” I bury my face in her neck and just breathe her in, the vanilla lotion clinging to her skin, her own warmth layered beneath it. She shifts back into me, hips moving in a way that isn’t accidental. Soft little undulation, warming up the whole room.
I palm her stomach, press her closer, and feel her exhale against my cheek. She parts her thighs slightly, just enough to make space for my hand, and I don’t need to be asked twice.
We’re both only half-dressed—me in clean boxers, her in Holden’s T-shirt and nothing underneath.
I slide my hand beneath the hem and feel how wet she is already, the heat of her against my palm.
I don’t bother going slow. I know what she wants, and it’s not a gentle wake-up.
She’s always liked the way we fuck when we’re still half in a dream—urgent, thick with the residue of whatever darkness we left behind.
She’s slick and hot, and her hips buck up at my hand.
I circle her clit, light at first, and she lets out a noise that’s nearly a sob.
I slip a finger inside her and her breath goes sharp, hips grinding against my hand.
She tips her head back, exposing her throat, and her eyes flutter closed like she’s half-drowning in the sensation.
My cock is hard and aching, pressed against her ass, but I hold back, wanting the first sound out of her to be need.
I love that she never hides it. She shudders, moans, and all the resistance melts out of her. It’s just pure want—direct line from her heart to her cunt to my hand. Her fingers twist in the bedsheet as I add a second finger, curling them just so, and she bites down on a gasp.
“You want me to fuck you?” I whisper into her hair, barely more than a vibration.
She nods. “Yes.” It’s like it’s the only word left in her mouth.
I move behind her and shove my boxers down just enough.
Her ass presses to my hips, desperate and sweet, and the sound she makes is ragged and honest. I line up and slide inside her in one long, slow push.
She takes me all at once, always does, greedy for it, and the shock of being surrounded by her heat is almost enough to make me lose it right there.
“Fuck. You feel so good, baby girl. So good.”
We move together. My hand finds her hip, the inside of her thigh, her breast beneath the shirt, and she’s always pushing back, meeting every thrust. The rhythm isn’t frantic, but it’s fast enough.
She buries her face in the pillow and lets go of a noise that makes me moan in return.
There’s nothing I want more in this world than to hear her lose herself like that.
Every time she comes on my cock, it feels like I made a promise and then kept it.
She starts to shake, and I know she’s close. I reach around and rub her clit in slow, hard circles until her whole body goes taut.
“Fuck. Yes—”
I brace my hand over her mouth to keep her from alerting the entire house, which only makes her wild for it. She comes with this muffled, frantic sound, squeezing my dick as she pulses around me, and it’s only pride or pure stubbornness that keeps me from blowing immediately.
She keeps moving, greedy for more, grinding me deeper, and I bite down on her shoulder to keep my own voice in check. It’s not pretty this time—no slow finish, just her, milking every last bit of me. But right as I’m about to lose it, there’s a pounding at the door.
“Dinner in five!” Milo sing-songs. “If you’re porking in there, finish fast, I’m not waiting!”
Sage doesn’t let go of me. If anything, she laughs and clenches harder, rolling her hips in a move that’s so bratty and so her I think I might die from loving her this much.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers. “He can wait.”
The pounding starts again in Milo’s own Morse code: dash dash dot, dash dash dot.
His get-your-ass-moving rhythm, reserved for meals and other disasters of equal importance.
I ignore it and fuck her harder, hand back over her mouth to stifle the sounds.
She’s coming again, raw and shivering, and I chase her over with two more thrusts, emptying so hard every nerve goes numb.
We collapse together, sticky and ruined, laughing into the tangle of blankets.
I bite at her shoulder again, just to hear her yelp, and then nuzzle the spot after.
Neither of us moves. The idea of putting on pants is a violation of the Geneva Conventions.
After a minute, she rolls over, facing me, her eyes gone sparkly and soft at the edges.
“I like waking up with you,” she says. Her fingers trace my jaw, slow and lazy.
“I like it, too,” I whisper. “Even if it means I have to fight off the rest of the boyfriends to get some time alone with you.”
She laughs and snuggles her face into my chest, letting the moment go loose and animal and sweet. “You realize if we leave this bed, it’s over, right?”
“What is?”
“This.” She points between us. “I mean, not over over—but. Once we go out there, we have to be adults again. Team meeting. Rules. Whatever file Holden has waiting.”
I twirl a lock of her hair between two fingers. “We do, don’t we? Your first official Hangman outing. You excited?”
She grins up at me, presses a kiss to the underside of my chin. “Obscenely.”
When we get downstairs, the kitchen is a war zone of the best kind.
Every burner is occupied. Milo is at the stove in boxer shorts and an apron, wielding a spatula in each hand like he’s conducting an orchestra.
There’s bacon in one pan, scrambled eggs in another, hash browns crisping in a third, and something on the back burner that looks like it might be pancake batter or a chemistry experiment.
“Good morning, lovers,” he says without turning around. “Or good evening, technically. I made breakfast for dinner because we deserve it, and because planning murder on an empty stomach is a war crime.”
Sage slides onto a stool at the counter. “Is that pancake batter?”
“Blueberry. With a hint of vanilla and a splash of the good maple syrup that Holden thinks I don’t know about.” He flips a pancake with unnecessary flair. “Also, I made fresh-squeezed orange juice because I’m a god among men and you’re all welcome.”
Knox is already at the table, a plate in front of him piled with enough food to sustain a small army. He eats as though refueling is a tactical necessity rather than a pleasure. He nods at Sage when she approaches. She kisses him on the cheek. Something passes between them that doesn’t need words.
Holden comes in from the hallway, freshly showered, folders under his arm. He takes one look at the kitchen, at Milo’s apron, at the four pans and the orange juice and the stack of pancakes, and says, “Someone better clean this up after.”
“That’s future Milo’s problem,” Milo says. “Present Milo is an artist and refuses to be constrained by domestic expectations.”
Eli appears last. He looks like he slept, which is remarkable—his hair is less chaotic, the shadows under his eyes have faded to a manageable gray, and he’s wearing a clean shirt. He takes the coffee Holden holds out without a word and settles into his usual spot against the counter.
Sage looks around the kitchen, her gaze moving from Knox to Holden, Eli, and Milo. She takes them in slowly—the men who spent the night cleaning up her solo kill, fighting with her about trust, then followed her upstairs and made room for her in the middle of the bed.
She catches my eye and grins.
Pride swells first. Fear follows right behind it. She fought for a place at this counter, and now she has one. I want that for her. I also want to keep her wrapped in Holden’s T-shirt until the bruise at her temple fades and the guy who’s after her is long gone.
Milo sets a plate in front of her—bacon, eggs, hash browns, two blueberry pancakes, a drizzle of maple syrup. “Eat up, kitten. Full tummies before we talk murder. That’s the rule.”
“Since when is that a rule?”
“Since I made it one. Right now. It’s a new rule. Someone write it down—Oh my God! I can learn cross-stitch. We can hang it on the wall.”
“Absolutely not,” Holden says, and doesn’t look up from the folders.
Milo just chuckles, which means there’s definitely going to be a cross-stitch on the wall sometime soon.
I think about his mother’s kitchen. BLESS THIS MESS in green thread above the sink, and the men in matching turtlenecks who flinch when she reaches for her pocket.
Milo flips a pancake and hums.
I don’t say anything.
Sage picks up her fork. Takes a bite of pancake. Closes her eyes.
“Oh my God,” she says. “These are incredible.”
“I know,” Milo says. “Everything I do is incredible. It’s my cross to bear.”
“Odin sent it through while you were asleep.” Holden sets a folder on the counter beside Sage’s plate. “Whenever you’re ready, we can talk about the next target.”
Sage opens her eyes. Sets her fork down. Then she shifts her plate aside, clearing a space between us. She waits.
We gather around the counter.
“Rules first?” she asks.
One corner of Holden’s mouth lifts. He opens the folder and turns it so all six of us can see. “Rules first.”
Sage leans in eagerly. This time, she doesn’t have to steal the file.