Page 83

I didn’t wait for a response, already hurrying through the living room, heart pounding as I reached the bedroom I’d shared with Bones. My bag was in the corner, barely holding together after everything. I unzipped it, rummaging past shirts and scattered gear until my fingers brushed the little toiletries case I never let go of.
There. Nestled inside, safe somehow through all the chaos.
I rushed back out, adrenaline kicking up even though it wasn’t life or death, just something thatmattered.
Alphabet and Lunchbox were still in the kitchen when I skidded in, slightly breathless.
“This,” I said, holding out the flash drive. “I found it the day we left. It was in Goblin’s harness. Totally forgot in the middle of everything—sorry. But… here.”
Alphabet’s eyes lit up. His grin broke wide like sunrise after a blackout.
“Youfoundit.”
“I had to clean him up,” I muttered, jaw tightening at the memory. “He was covered in blood.”
“Wasn’t his,” Alphabet said, hand on heart. “Wasn’t mine either.”
“Good to know.”
He dropped his bag and closed the distance between us with a few quick strides, then gently cupped my face like I was something fragile and worth holding.
“Thank you, Gracie.”
“You’re welcome,” I breathed. “Sorry, I forgot I had it.”
His kiss was soft, barely there, more a whisper than a press. But it sent a shiver rippling all the way through me.
“You kept yourself and Goblin alive. That’s all I care about.” Another kiss, just as light but deeper somehow. “Now, go shower.”
I smirked. “Are you saying I stink?”
“Never,” he said, tone wicked. “Though I wish I had time to wash your back.”
The flush hit me hard, sharp and low. “Raincheck?”
He winked. “Definitely.” Then made a lazy shooing motion. “Go. Before I decide to make time anyway.”
Still tingling, I turned back toward the bedroom, already tugging my shirt loose. I pushed the door closed behind me with a soft click—only to find Bones standing with his back to me, wrapped in a towel, steam curling off his skin. His hair was slicked back, droplets still clinging to his shoulders.
Already showered. Already hurting.
The bruise on his side stole my breath. Dark and brutal, it bloomed across his ribs like something rotten trying to surface. Pain radiated from the sight alone.
He turned slightly, typing something on his phone, and I saw the bruise stretched further, sprawling across his chest like a shadow trying to consume him.
“You’re bleeding,” I said, moving before I even thought.
“Not the worst I’ve had,” he replied without looking up.
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’thurt.” My voice cracked sharper than I meant it to. “Did anyone even patch you up?”
He looked at me then, and what hit me wasn’t defiance or pride or even irritation. It was… weariness. A kind of soul-deep fatigue that went beyond physical pain. His face, usually locked down, was justtired.Tired of hurting. Tired of pretending not to.
Then I saw them. The bruises. Dozens of them. Fist-sized, angry, purple-black marks stamped across his skin like someone had tried to break him apart piece by piece.
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “You got those… covering me.” Back there. When they opened fire. I hadn’t seen anything hit him, but then it had all happened so fast, so loud.
“I got them doing my job,” he said stiffly.