Page 45 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

“Good,” Devereaux says. “You are angry and you are not stupid. My favorite combination in a guest.”

He gestures a staffer over with a look. “Please seat Ms. Kate and Mr. Finn in Pride’s corner again. Inform me when Mr. Kate—” he pauses, corrects kindly, “—Mr. O’Neill—moves theaters.”

We retake our seats. Juno trembles once in the way you tremble when you don’t have time to fall apart yet. I angle my knee to her knee, and she presses back so lightly it might be an accident. Her eyes never leave the mirror.

“Render,” I turn on the comm, and murmur, voice casual enough to sound like flirting. “New targets. Bob O’Neill. Etta Hoy. North banquette. Track exit.”

“On it,” Render says. “Knight, get cozy by the valet. Ozzy, you’re now Mr. Mint at the bar. Gage, if Bob’s name pings your donor list, give me a color.”

Gage replies with a little spark. “ Color: beige. He’s VIP-adjacent. Donor enough to feel seen, not enough to be useful at parties.”

“Perfect,” Juno says under her breath. “Useful men don’t go to Club Greed on a Wednesday.”

Devereaux ghosts back into the salon and returns ten minutes later, tablet in hand.

“Adjacency maps are rendering,” he says.

“Coleman’s constellation is… expected. Beau’s is noisier.

Rook prefers quiet rooms. Devin’s is a puppy.

Merritt’s was—” He stops, the respect of an obituary in the air.

“—messier than people think. Your stepfather’s constellation shows donor dinners, two afternoons at Stonehouse, and one Marina Club brunch with gray suits you will not like. ”

He tips the tablet so we can see a sanitized web—nodes without names, lines of varying thickness. One cluster glows denser where five nodes overlap. He taps it with two fingers. “This is your hive,” he says. “I’ll give my wife the names.”

“Thank you,” I say, and mean it more than a please at a door.

He glances toward the mirror again. “Mr. O’Neill is leaving with his companion through the side garden. He did not visit the cashier. He will return for his card tomorrow like a man who believes the world holds his tab.”

“Knight?” I say.

“Garden gate,” Knight replies. “I’ll let him pass. Follow at two cars.”

Juno stands. Smoothing the dress is something for her hands to do while her brain refuses to shake. She looks at Devereaux and her eyes soften, just a fraction. “I won’t break your house rules,” she says.

“You just proved it,” he replies.

We move. The side corridor exhales us into the night, and the garden gate releases Juno into air that smells like rosemary and heat.

Knight’s sedan idles at the curb. Bob and Etta slip into a rideshare, laughter too loud for the hour.

Knight counts to five in his head—he’s always been better at that than me—and pulls out like a man who just remembered he needed milk.

In the back seat, Juno’s hands fist in the hem of her dress and then unclench, over and over, until the motion becomes so steady it’s a kind of a prayer.

“You okay?” I ask softly.

“No,” she says.

I nod and text the group.

We tail Bob. Render, eyes. Ozzy, run the plate on the rideshare in case he swaps. Gage, text if Bob has any late-night calendar you can see.

Gage: Calendar is family-friendly. Texts are not. He uses a second number for business. I’ll hunt it.

Juno stares straight ahead, jaw a hinge. “If he’s involved,” she says, and her voice is all edge, no tremor, “I’ll tell my mother myself.”

“If he’s involved,” I say, “we’ll have it on paper, not on rage.”

She exhales. “Paper first. Rage later.”

“Standing order,” I say.

Knight takes a right, and the rideshare takes a left.

The city folds into a normal night that thinks it can hide everyone.

In my pocket, the comm vibrates once—Render, Morse for camera ahead .

Devereaux’s heat map is still ghosting behind my eyes; Chloe’s handwriting floats at the edges of a future warrant; Club Greed’s air still clings to my jacket like a promise we didn’t break.

I reach across the seat and lay my hand, palm up, on Juno’s thigh. She looks down at it like it’s a foreign phrase and then threads her fingers through mine and squeezes.

Once we get back to her apartment, I don’t even wait for an invitation. My lips are on hers before the door even shuts.

I don’t bother pretending I’m in control of this.

I lace my fingers with Juno’s and tug her gently down the hallway, past the kitchen light and the board on the wall, toward the soft spill of her bedroom lamp.

She follows without hesitation, a half-smile playing at her mouth like she already knows what I’m going to say.

At the threshold I stop, crowding close enough to feel her breath graze my throat. “Tell me if you want to slow down.”

“Don’t you dare,” she whispers, and that’s all the invitation I need.

I lift her, and she laughs, her arms looped around my neck as I carry her the last few steps.

The city hums outside the window, neon filtering through the curtains and laying silver across her sheets.

I set her down in that silver, and for a second I just look.

The glow paints her in borrowed starlight, and something in my chest goes unsteady.

I kiss her like I’ve been holding my breath, like this is the first real oxygen I’ve had all day.

Her hands slide under my shirt, greedy and sweet, and I let her take it off me, let the cool air find the heat on my skin.

I map her with my mouth—temple, cheekbone, the soft corner of her smile—memorizing the places that make her pulse jump against my lips.

“Arrow,” she says, and it’s not a question, it’s a claim.

My palms span her waist. “Yeah.”

“More,” she breathes.

I listen. I go slow because she deserves slow, because every inch feels like a secret she’s letting me keep.

Fabric gives under my fingers, whispering away one piece at a time, every reveal met with my mouth, my hands, my patience.

She arches, trusting, and I steady her with a palm at the small of her back, thumb drawing mindless circles that make her shiver.

I swear I can feel her heartbeat in my own veins.

We find a rhythm that’s only ours—her nails skimming my shoulders, her name caught against my tongue, the bed dipping as I come down to meet her. I hold her face when I kiss her, like the world might tilt if I don’t. The room narrows to soft sounds and shared breath.

When the rush crests and breaks, I stay right there: forehead to hers, breaths syncing, my hand cupping her jaw like I’ve found something I’m never going to misplace again.

“Stay,” she whispers.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her, and mean it. The night holds its breath around us, and for a long, quiet moment, it’s just the two of us in the silver glow.