15. Sage
FIFTEEN
SAGE
My limbs won’t work.
My mouth is open, jaw locked mid-scream, but sound doesn’t travel through whatever dark world I’m trapped in.
Only the cold penetrates.
I’m on the beach. Under the jetty. Not in the dress this time—naked, or half-naked, or maybe the fabric is made of fog. I’m alone, but everything has an uncanny feel to it, as if a million eyes are watching.
Shadows swing above me. Body after body, dangling from their ropes, stomachs sliced open.
I try to move. Try to run. My feet are stuck—sand or acid, I can’t tell—and every heaving step lands in slow motion.
At first it doesn’t hurt, then I feel the sting start in my shins. It crawls up, blistering the skin off my bones.
Every nerve is awake, raw.
I scream again. Desperate to break free.
“You’re okay. Hey—you’re okay. You’re safe.”
The voice pulls me up from the dark wet, from somewhere that smells like salt and copper and the inside of my own screaming throat.
I’m thrashing before I’m conscious, fists swinging at shadows, and then there are hands on my shoulders—warm, firm, holding me still without holding me down—and a face swims into focus above me.
“It’s just a dream, baby girl. Just a dream. You’re okay.”
The panic drains out of me like water from a cracked glass, and I sag back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat cooling on my skin.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
His voice is so soothing my body goes loose.
I’m safe.
“Good job. You’re doing great.”
I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. The room sharpens around the edges as the nightmare slides away. I’m in my bedroom. My apartment. Streetlight slants in through the blinds, painting everything in stripes of orange and black.
There’s a man standing next to my bed.
The guy who helped me calm down under the jetty a couple of nights ago. The one who held my hair when I was sick.
Micah.
Wait.
He’s standing next to my bed?
“What the fuck?”
I scramble upright, grabbing for the lamp on the nightstand. Light floods the room, harsh and sudden, and I blink against it, heart slamming back into overdrive.
He’s already stepped back, hands raised, palms out. The universal gesture of I’m not a threat. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a hoodie, his dark-auburn hair is damp like he showered not long ago, and his face—now that I can see it properly—is soft with concern.
But still, he’s a man in my bedroom at—I glance at the clock—3:47 a.m.
“What the fuck?” I say again, because apparently that’s the only phrase my brain can produce right now.
“I heard you from the street.” His voice is low, calm, like he’s talking to a spooked animal. “You were screaming. I thought someone was—”
“So you broke into my apartment?”
“I knocked first. You didn’t answer.”
“Because I was asleep.”
“You were screaming,” he repeats. “It didn’t sound like sleep.”
I stare at him. He stares back. His eyes are dark and steady, and for a beat I think I see pain reflecting back at me, like hearing me scream hurt him somehow.
“So what? You climbed in through my window?”
“Busted the door open, actually.” He winces. “You’re going to need a new lock.”
“Oh my god.”
“I’ll fix it. Or replace it. Whatever you want.”
“Jesus Christ. There’s a spare key in the planter outside! I told Holden it was there.”
“Shit, sorry. I didn’t get that information. Didn’t think to check, either.”
I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, making myself small. The adrenaline is crashing now, leaving me shaky and cold, and the nightmare clings to the edges of my vision.
I lick my lips, my eyes traveling down his body. I catch the edge of a bandage on his forearm poking out from under his sleeve. “Is that from what I did to you?” I ask, nodding toward his arm.
He looks down and touches it, like he’d forgotten it was even there. “It’s fine. I’ll heal.” He smiles, and he’s so damn beautiful it makes my stomach flip a little.
I force my eyes back to the bandage. “Did you get tested? That was the same knife I—Brock might’ve had something. Plus, I bit you. Teeth can cause—”
“I know. I’m okay.”
“Okay,” I repeat, because I honestly don’t have anything else to say right now.
“I’m Micah, by the way.” He lowers one hand, holds it out like I should shake it. But when I just stare at it, he holds it up again. “Sorry.”
“Sage.” I wince when he smiles. He already knows my name. They all do.
“Nice to officially meet you, Sage.” He finally lowers his hands to his sides.
“Likewise.”
His eyes cut to where Eli’s jacket hangs over my chair. “Eli gave that back to you?”
I nod. “Yesterday. He babysat me during my shift. We talked over sandwiches at the park after.” My voice is still scratchy from the nightmare but I catch the surprise that flickers across his face. “You guys always this . . . hands-on with your blackmail targets?”
He laughs. “No, usually we only obsess over people who impress us.” He looks me up and down. “And you were impressive.”
A hot flush crawls up my body and I pick an invisible piece of lint from my blanket to cover my reaction.
It’s crazy to think how insane my life has become in just three days.
Not only did I murder a man, but I did it in front of five seriously hot but scary guys who’ve spent the entire weekend escorting me through every moment of my life.
“Sorry for the jump scare.” I run a hand over my face, still sticky with leftover terror and sweat. It’s too much. All of it. I don’t know how to push him out or invite him in, and I’m too tired to care which is the right choice.
He bounces a shoulder. “It happens.”
The silence stretches between us. Outside, a car passes, headlights sweeping across the ceiling. Somewhere in the building, a pipe groans.
“So, um, I thought you had a roommate?” he says. “We didn’t notice them come home.”
“We?”
“Eli, Knox, me.” He counts the names off on his fingers. “We rotate.”
I shrug. “She’s been staying at Tyler’s—her boyfriend. I’ve barely seen her all weekend.”
“Is that normal?”
I sigh. “Not really. I mean, Tyler comes from money so he prefers it when she stays at his place. But Amy is normally back here Sunday night. She has work tomorrow.”
“She okay?”
“Yeah. She said she’s fine. But I don’t think Tyler likes me now.”
“What gives you that impression?”
“Well, the first time I go to a party his best friend takes off without saying anything.”
He leans against the wall of my bedroom. “They’re not buying that he flew to San Jose?”
I shrug. “I’m sure you guys did a great job selling that story. But it doesn’t change the fact that to my roommate and her friends, it looks like I did something to make him take off.”
He nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “Some people just need someone to blame.”
“Guess I’m first in line.” I exhale a shaky, bitter laugh. “Not like I’d blame them. If Amy disappeared, I’d assume the worst of Tyler, too.”
Not that I care what Tyler thinks of me. My biggest concern here is Amy. She’s the only genuine friend I’ve made since coming to Hunter Harbor, and I’m afraid that if her boyfriend sours on me it’ll color the way she sees me. I don’t want to lose her. Not now, when I need her more than ever.
I flex my toes under the blanket and study Micah’s face.
He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost feminine—high cheekbones, full mouth, lashes that would make a mascara model weep.
But there’s nothing soft about his eyes.
They’re dark and deep and ancient, like he’s seen things that aged him decades in a handful of years.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty-six.”
“You look younger.”
“I get that a lot.” His mouth curves, but it’s not quite a smile. “Baby face. It’s useful in my line of work.”
“Which is?”
“Bartending, mostly. I work at a club in the city.” He tilts his head, studying me.
“What kind of club?”
He thinks on that for a moment. “The kind of place where it’s safe to be yourself.”
“Be yourself, how?”
He smiles, folds his arms a little tighter. “It’s a sex club. Anything goes, as long as everyone involved is enthusiastically consenting.”
There’s no coyness in the way he says it, no shame or bravado. Just a flat, self-aware fact.
I blink. “Wait—like, Eyes Wide Shut stuff? Or, like, orgies and leather and . . .?”
He shrugs, his mouth twitching at the corners.
“It’s more Velvet Underground than Nine Inch Nails.
Consent is king, and no one fucks with anyone who’s not actively agreeing.
” I try to picture it—the beautiful, haunted man in front of me, surrounded by moneyed patrons sipping top-shelf gin and tonic while watching strangers fuck on neon-lit stages.
He notices. Leans in a little, crouching so our eyes are level. “You can visit, if you want.”
“Your club?”
“Yeah. You don’t have to participate. You can watch. Or don’t watch. Or just sit at the bar and stare at me if that makes you feel safe.”
It sounds like a joke but he says it completely straight and I have no idea how to respond. There’s a weird tightness in my chest, suspiciously like the kind I get before I do something reckless. “Participate in what exactly?”
“I’ll tell you more when you’re ready for it.” He gives me a wink, and it does something funny to my insides. I open my mouth to push for more. But then I close it again when I realize that maybe he’s right. Maybe I don’t want to know. Yet.
“Anyway, I should go.” He shifts his weight, about to leave. “Let you get back to sleep. I’ll fix the lock tomorrow, I promise.”
He’s halfway to the door when I hear myself call after him. “Stay.”
He freezes. Looks at me.
“Stay,” I repeat, and my voice sounds strange in my own ears. It’s thin and raw and dangerously close to breaking. “Just . . . stay. Talk to me. For a while. I don’t want to go back to sleep yet.”
I shift to the side a little and pat my bed. He hesitates for the briefest moment before he crosses the room and sinks down onto the bed beside me. He does it slow, careful. Like he’s afraid any sudden movement might spook me.
Once he’s settled, he shifts to look at me. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know. Anything.” I lean my head back against the headboard and stare at the ceiling. “Tell me how you became one of the Hangmen.”
“The Hangmen?”
I shrug. “It’s what I’m calling your band of merry murderous men.”
He chuckles a little and swipes a hand across his jaw. “Milo is going to love that.”
“Milo’s the one who had the note?” I ask, trying to recall his face.
Micah nods. “He has a flair for forgery.”
“How come I haven’t met him yet? Has he somehow gotten out of Sage-sitting duty?”
“He and I have been on Brock-disappearing duty. But he’ll likely keep his distance a little longer.”
“Why? Is he shy?”
Micah laughs at that. “Far from it. He’s giving you some space. Milo can be . . . a lot.”
“And what about you? Are you a lot? Is that why you didn’t approach me like the others?”
He frowns. “How did they approach you?”
“Let me see . . .” I count them off on my fingers. “Holden grabbed me off the street to explain, in detail, that if I talk it’s mutually assured destruction.”
“Sounds like something Holden would do.”
I smile. “He’s a delight. That’s for sure. Then Knox—he didn’t really approach me as much as I called him out. And Eli came straight into the diner and kind of explained how this whole Hangmen thing got going.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But he didn’t explain how each person got involved.”
“That’s something you want to know?”
“Of course. You all know my murder origin story. It’s only fair I know yours.”
A smile ghosts across his features before he falls quiet. For a while, I don’t think he’s going to answer. But when he does, his voice is soft as a memory.
“I was raped,” he says.