Page 26 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

Juno

By the time I trudge up my stairs, my bag feels like it’s full of wet bricks and my brain feels like a dryer lint trap clogging with useless fibers.

The Atlas bartender didn’t text. The marina stayed sleepy and smug.

The burner number Render traced has already gone dark.

I spent an hour pretending to read a book in the Marina Club’s public boardwalk pavilion like I belonged there, and my only win was a seagull with murder in its eyes deciding I wasn’t lunch.

I stand in the doorway of my apartment and take it in: the half-shaded mandala, the cold coffee, the crime wall humming at me like a neon sign I can’t turn off. The quiet presses. The truth is simple and heavy. I need help.

I need his help.

My throat goes tight. I grab my phone anyway and type with thumbs that want to rebel:

Can you pull your team together? Tonight. No masks needed anymore. I want a plan.

The typing bubbles appear instantly, like he’s been waiting with the chat open.

Arrow: Yes. Riverside at 8? I’ll text everyone.

A beat.

Arrow: Thank you for asking me.

I stare at those six words longer than I should. Relief spreads through me—warm, unwanted, undeniable. Then I shove the feeling down where I’ve been keeping all the other messy ones and start moving. Hoodie. Notes. Pepper spray. The Moleskine with Nico – Atlas Room underlined twice.

The Riverside loft glows against the river’s dusk like a stubborn thought you can’t shake. When I climb the metal stairs, the door is already propped. The war room feels brighter without the masks: faces I know, not presidents I don’t.

Ozzy’s in a gray hoodie and joggers, mohawk tucked under a beanie that says 404 in block letters.

Knight leans against the table, all height and warm grin, sleeves shoved to the elbow.

Render is perched on a folding chair with a camera bag by his feet and an air of alert quiet; he lifts two fingers in hello.

Gage holds up a pack of neon sticky notes like he’s a dealer and we’re here to gamble.

And Arrow in his jeans, black Henley, beard looking hot enough to ride, and his sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

He’s at the whiteboard, already drawing a timeline with a neat hand.

He turns when I enter and the room shifts almost imperceptibly, like everyone rotates a few degrees to face me.

It’s not threatening. It feels like being backed up.

“Final Girl,” Render says, using the nickname with a tiny smile, as if checking whether it still fits. “Ready to set a small, legal-adjacent fire?”

“As long as it’s pointed the right way,” I say, setting my bag down and spreading my notes across the nearest table.

Knight taps the whiteboard. “We’ve got a skeleton plan. You flesh it out, we’ll give it muscle.”

Ozzy slides a hot tea toward me. “Mint. For nerves. No judgment if you spike it with whiskey later.”

I take the mug and meet Arrow’s eyes across the table. For a second, everything else blurs. I’m still mad, still cracked down the middle… and I’m safer just looking at him. I hate how true that is.

“Okay,” I say, pulling myself into the circle. “Here’s what we know, plus the scraps I scraped up today.”

I walk them through it: Arby’s Close Friends stories; the matchbook; Megan at Atlas Room remembering smoked honey and a signet ring.

Nereus Marine LLC – Legacy Slip D4 ; Render’s text about Nicolas Armand ; the burner text— bright girl —and how it curdled my stomach.

I show the blurry photo of the signet crest, the boat shot, the half-caught license plate: NRS-0417 .

Gage’s eyes sharpen. “I can stabilize that plate photo more. Also pull any city cams along the marina exit and build a car path.”

“Valet logs,” Render adds. “Marina Club’s system is outsourced. If they run a cloud POS, I can angle a spear-phish.”

Knight gives a low whistle. “English, please.”

“Render will politely trick the valet vendor into giving us the guest list,” Ozzy translates. “And we’ll send them cookies. Always cookies.”

“Cookies are essential to any op,” Knight says solemnly.

Arrow spins the whiteboard toward us—timeline tight and legible: ATLAS → MARINA → NEREUS → UNKNOWN TEXT. He boxes Nicolas Armand and draws arrows to Marina Membership, Boat Registration, Atlas Tabs, Cell Pings .

“Two tracks,” he says. “Soft and hard. Soft: social engineering, human contact. We use Atlas and Marina Club to pull what people will give us if we look confident and slightly annoying. Hard: metadata. Plates, cell towers, public cams, vendor crumbs.”

Gage nods. “I’ll sit in a car and become a bat.”

Knight claps him on the shoulder. “Bats are underappreciated.”

“Atlas,” I say. “Megan said he came back twice after . Alone. Watching the door. If he thinks I’m coming back?—”

“Bait,” Render finishes, eyes thoughtful. “We can set a perimeter and let him give himself away.”

Arrow’s jaw tightens. “We control the room if we do that. Two plainclothes at the bar, one at the door, one outside on comms. You never order a drink we haven’t watched poured.”

“Dad voice,” Ozzy stage-whispers, and Knight coughs “ standing order ” into his fist. Gage doesn’t look up but I catch the twitch of a smile.

Heat crawls up my neck. I try not to smile and fail. “He’s not wrong,” I say, and Arrow’s shoulders subtly drop half an inch.

“Marina,” Render continues, businesslike again. “Armand’s paper trail is thin—LLCs that lead to shells. But the club loves a list. I’ll work the membership angle. Juno, do you know anyone in their orbit? Sponsor reps? That PR girl who invited Arby to the Gracewood thing?”

“Etta,” I say, making a face. “She’d answer if I DM with the right amount of faux glam and moral superiority.”

“Do it,” Render says. “Ask about ‘Nico’ like he’s a known quantity and you haven’t been in mourning. People love to fill gaps with their own info.”

Gage flips open his tablet. “I can build a facial composite from the Close Friends reflections and the Marina cams. Not perfect. Good enough to track if he goes past the angles we can borrow.”

Knight leans on the table. “And this bright girl text?”

“I’ve got the last tower ping before that phone went swimming,” Render says. “Under the bridge by the rowing sheds. I can drop a micro-crawler there to sniff for any burner that goes live in the same square foot. Creeps are habitual.”

Gage sucks in a breath. “Pizza for Render. Extra cheese. Forever.”

They move like a machine that learned to dance. I watch and feel the panic loosen, a centimeter at a time. Then Knight turns to me.

“What do you need?” he asks. “Like, specifically. What gets you through the next forty-eight without detonating?”

I blink. The question is a hand held out in a dark room. “Structure,” I admit. “A schedule. Check-ins that aren’t lectures. And… someone to tell my mom I’m not sleeping with a knife under my pillow even if I am.”

“Copy,” Gage says, tapping his phone. “I’ll text Karen from ‘Unknown Number’ with a tasteful check-in. Kidding. I’ll text you reminders and you text Karen. No fake-outs.”

Arrow draws a rectangle on the board and writes TODAY inside it, then bullets the plan:

Atlas : Megan, staff briefed, perim on Juno.

Marina : Render → valet logs Gage → vehicle path; Knight → eyes on Nereus slip.

Digital : Ozzy record 10-min pod update to rattle cages (no specifics).

“Pod update?” I echo.

“Noise draws vermin,” Render says gently. “You don’t say ‘Nico.’ You say ‘I’m closer than you think.’ If he’s a narcissist, curiosity will drag him to the Atlas door.”

“And we’ll be there,” Arrow says, voice calm and absolute.

Knight points at Arrow with a grin. “You hear that tone? That’s ‘I’ll personally body-check a yacht’ tone.”

Ozzy elbows him. “He’ll ask the yacht to please stop, politely .”

“Then tie it up with gaffer tape,” Gage adds, deadpan.

Even I laugh, which I didn’t think was on the menu today. Arrow tries not to, fails, and shoots the guys a flat look that only makes them grin wider.

“Alright, Boy Scout,” Ozzy says. “What’s your personal to-do? Apart from hover respectfully .”

Arrow flips the marker in his fingers. “I’m looping Dean for legal cover. And I’m drafting a handoff packet to Detective Huxley. If we cross a line, I want her to have a clean breadcrumb trail.”

“Look at him, making friends with the law,” Knight says. “Character development.”

Render slaps a sticky note labeled DON’T GET ARRESTED on the corner of the whiteboard. “Vibes-only goal.”

The teasing shouldn’t work, but it does. The room feels less like a bunker and more like a kitchen table. My chest unclenches enough that I can breathe without tasting iron.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, looking at each of them. “For showing up without masks. For… seeing me.”

Gage inclines his head. Knight gives me a two-finger salute. Ozzy raises his tea like a toast. Render’s smile softens. “We’ve got you, Juno.”

Arrow doesn’t say anything, but his eyes meet mine—steady, wrecked, hopeful. For a second I think I might cry. I blink it into submission.

We split tasks. Phones chirp. Laptops open.

For an hour, the loft buzzes with motion and purpose.

Render perches at the corner desk, coaxing a valet vendor into a “system refresh.” Ozzy and Gage run a feeder from public cam nodes closest to the marina exits.

Knight texts a “friend of a friend” at a dock supply shop and promises to buy a forklift with cash if needed (he won’t, but the mental image is soothing).

When we finally call time, the night beyond the windows has deepened to river-black. Render taps my shoulder with his pen. “Text Etta now. Before you talk yourself out of it.”

I type a message I hate—breezy, half-flirt, all calculated:

Hey Etta! Long time. Cheering that you pulled off the Delphine circus. Quick q—who’s the silver-fox friend of the Club that keeps buying Atlas out of smoked honey? We’ve shared a table or two… DM me, I’m curious

I hit send and feel like I need to wash my hands.

“Good,” Render says. “Now, go home. Sleep. We’ll handle the crawling.”

The guys pack up. Knight pulls me into a gentle side hug that feels like leaning on a brick wall warmed by the sun. “Call if you need a moving mountain,” he says. “I do weekends.”

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it more than he knows.

Ozzy points at me with two fingers and then the floor, a goofy we-got-you gesture that somehow doesn’t make me roll my eyes. Gage lifts a hand in a quiet goodbye. Render winks which makes Arrow growl and something flutters low in my belly.

When the last footsteps fade down the stairs, it’s just me and Arrow. The room exhales. I feel all my shields creak into place at once.

He doesn’t move closer. He picks up two empty cups, tosses them, wipes the whiteboard with methodical care. Finally, he turns.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

It’s such an Arrow question—gentle, habitual—that it scrapes something raw. “No.”

He nods like he expected that. “Can I do anything that isn’t ‘leave’?”

I pull in a breath and let it out slow. “You broke my trust.”

He flinches. “I did.”

“I’m not sure I can forgive that yet.”

He swallows. “That’s fair.”

“I want to,” I add, a whisper I didn’t plan to release. “But wanting hasn’t caught up to… everything else.”

“I can wait,” he says. No theatrics. No vows. Just a statement like the weather.

“I don’t want you waiting like a guard dog,” I say, harsher than I intend. “I don’t want to be watched.”

“I hear you.” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, then drops it. “I’ll show up when you ask. Not when I think.”

Silence stretches thin and tight. I should leave. I should lock this room behind me and go home to color circles until the panic finds something to do. Instead, I step forward like a tide tugging me by the ankle.

“You still…” I clear my throat. Try again. “Last time, when I said ‘touch me,’ you listened.” The memory flashes hot and humiliating and good. “Right now I don’t want comfort. I want truth. Can you give me that?”

“Yes,” he says immediately.

I lift a hand and set my palm against his chest. His heartbeat is a staccato rabbit. “Then kiss me like someone who knows he may not get to do it tomorrow.”

His breath shakes. “Juno?—”

“Don’t talk,” I whisper. “Just—truth.”

He steps in. His hand hovers at my jaw as if asking permission.

I tip my face up. The first brush is cautious, a question.

I press closer and the question dissolves.

Heat flickers under my skin, and the world narrows to the slide of his mouth on mine.

He kisses like apology and hunger can coexist—gentle then desperate, an anchor then a spark.

My fingers fist in his shirt. His body crowds mine to the edge of the table and every nerve ending I have votes we stop being mad and start being reckless.

I break first, breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine. “If we keep going,” I say, voice wrecked, “I’ll forgive you for the next ten minutes and hate myself in the morning.”

He huffs a laugh that isn’t funny. “Standing down.”

I smooth my thumb over his cheekbone, a motion my body memorized before my brain could object. “Don’t think this fixes anything.”

“It doesn’t,” he says. “But I’m grateful for the data point.”

I snort, which breaks the pressure enough to breathe without sobbing. He steps back, giving me space. The room becomes a room again.

“Text me the minute you get home,” he says softly.

“I will,” I say, and mean it.

At the door, I look back. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them near me. His eyes are the warm-brown espresso I once demanded from a mask. I don’t say I forgive you . I say, “Don’t be late tomorrow.”

“For the plan or for the bagels?” he asks, a ghost of a smile.

“Both,” I say, and disappear into the stairwell before my resolve changes its mind. Outside, the river air bites my lungs and I realize I’m smiling for the first time today. It’s small and stupid and not the same as forgiveness.

But it’s a start. And so is a plan to light Nico Armand’s shadow on fire.