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“Rock, can you hand me that white can Rooster brought?”

There’s a rustle. Clink of metal.

“This might sting,” Margot warns. “But not as bad as before. Then it should help numb the area while I close the wound.”

“Okay.” Not like I’ve got a choice.

She leans over, spraying a fine mist over my upper thigh. Cold. Sharp. Then a low, spreading numbness. Not painless, but less fire.

Snap. Another pair of gloves. The sharp chemical scent of disinfectant stings my nose.

“Gauze,” she says, and someone—Rooster, I think—places it in her hand without a word.

Another sting of antiseptic, milder this time. Then pressure. Damp warmth. My leg twitches. I grind my teeth.

“You okay?” she asks without looking up.

“Just ducky.” My voice scrapes out of my throat like gravel.

She picks up something thin and silver. My vision tunnels on it.

Needle. Thread. Probably what she uses to stitch dead faces into their final, peaceful expressions.

“This will pull,” she warns. “I’m sorry.”

The needle bites through my skin. I flinch hard, fingers curling into fists.

Rooster squeezes my shoulder. “Try to stay still.”

I grunt a noise of agreement.

Each tug of the needle pulls. A dull, dragging sort of flame.

Her breath ghosts over my skin as she leans in, focused, determined. The corners of her mouth pulled down, brows drawn tight.

“You got this,” Murphy says, squeezing my other shoulder.

My body’s coiled tight, bracing for the moment whatever Margot sprayed wears off and hell kicks in.

“Breathe,” she whispers, her voice a soft tether pulling me back. “You’re doing great. Almost done.”

I drag in a breath that doesn’t quite reach my lungs.

Another couple minutes go by in a haze. Then she steps back, staring at her work. “Done. Let me put an antibiotic ointment on it, then cover it with some gauze.”

She moves to the counter. I track her for a second, then let my head thud against the table.

“Feel better?” Rooster asks.

“My head stopped spinning, so yeah.”

“Good.”

Margot returns, dressing the wound with steady, practiced hands. When she’s done, she takes a step back, still staring like she doesn’t trust the bandage to behave.

“You’re staying here,” she says firmly. “I’ll check it and change the dressing tomorrow.” No room for arguing with my girl.

I groan and push up on my elbows. “Not sure how I feel about going up all those stairs.”

“We’ll get your big ass up there,” Rooster promises, way too cheerfully. “One way or another.”

“I’m thinking we might run over to the urgent care clinic in the morning. Have an actual doctor look at it,” Margot says, still focused on my thigh. “Maybe give you antibiotics.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I grumble. “I don’t need to drop my drawers for some doctor.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, bunching up the blue scrub top she’d put on at some point. “You lose your leg, you won’t be riding again any time soon, so you’ll go if I think you need to.”

Rooster huffs and snorts.

Wrath actually cackles.

“Can he put pants on?” Rooster asks. “I brought some loose athletic shorts and a pair of sweats.”

Margot meets my eyes. “The shorts should be okay, if you think you can tolerate them.”

“Yeah.” I stretch toward the counter. “Gimmie.”

Rooster sets the duffle bag on the table next to me. I paw through the stuff—Gatorade, shiny black shorts, sleeveless shirt?—

“You brought me a pair of fuckin’ Crocs?” I hold up the giant, black clown shoe and whap his arm with it.

“Ow.” He laughs and covers the spot I nailed. “I did the best I could on a moment’s notice. Figured you’ll be recovering for a few days.”

Margot fishes the other shoe out of the bag. “We can put some of my pins in the holes to dress them up if you want.” Her lips curve into a wicked smirk.

That gets the guys laughing again.

Fuckers. Every one of them.

Except Margot. Can’t get enough of her. Even if she’s poking fun at me and ordering me to go to the doctor.

“Where’s Rock?” I ask.

“Checking the oven,” Murphy says.

Margot’s eyes widen. “I better go. I need to burn all these clothes.” She gathers my ruined jeans, digging into the pockets. She empties everything onto the counter—wallet, keys, loose change…

And one gold foil square that must’ve escaped my wallet.

Murphy doubles over, howling.

Rooster— asshole —chuckles.

Margot slants a look at me and tucks the condom back in my wallet. “You won’t be needing that for a few days.”

Wrath loses it, snickering like an idiot.

I glance from the gauze taped on my thigh to Margot. “We’ll figure out something.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes, scooping up the clothes into the sheet and bundling it into a massive ball.

“I can take that, Margot,” Wrath offers.

She glances at the bundle, then Wrath’s cut. “I’ve got it. I’d rather not risk transferring any DNA onto your leather, since I know you won’t toss that in the fire.”

“Good point.” Wrath tips his chin in approval.

I tilt my head toward the door. “Go with her,” I say to Rooster.

“Yup.” He dips his chin. “On her.”

Murphy taps his fist against my shoulder and follows Rooster out.

I cock my head at Wrath. “Guess that makes you the lucky bastard helping me into my shorts.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he groans, but he’s already holding them out, letting me use his shoulder for balance and keeping his cranky jokes to himself.

I wiggle my feet into the fucking Crocs and shuffle into the hallway.

Not bad. I can put weight on it. Doesn’t burn as much now. There’s a tug-and-pull sensation, but it’s tolerable.

At the staircase, I stop, grip the banister, and stare at the long road ahead.

“All the way to the third floor, huh?” Wrath asks, resting a hand on my shoulder.

“Yup.”

“All right. We’ve got this. Slow and steady.”

Wrath slipping into encouraging cheerleader mode is almost the most unnerving thing about tonight.

Wrath hooks an arm around my waist and jerks me to his side.

“Lean on me,” he grunts.

I drape my arm over his shoulders, careful not to twist the wrong way. “You know, this might be easier if you carried me up bridal-style.” I fight to keep a grin off my face.

“It’d be easiest to leave you outside in the parking lot.” He nods. “Let’s go. One at time.”

We take the stairs slow. My leg throbs with every step, but Wrath’s bulk makes a solid wall to lean against and he’s surprisingly patient.

Not sure if I’m grateful for the help or annoyed for needing it.

“Awww, you two are the cutest,” Murphy snarks from below.

I pause at the second-floor landing, catching my breath.

Murphy jogs up the stairs like he’s Rocky, just to show off.

“Careful, ginger, or I’m gonna toss you right back down those stairs,” Wrath warns.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you carried him?” Murphy grins and holds out his arms like he’s cradling a baby.

Wrath shoves his shoulder, sending him ahead of us.

“No playing on the stairs,” Margot calls out from below.

Behind her, Rooster’s laughing.

She hurries up to meet us. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I gesture between Wrath and Murphy. “They were deciding who’s going to carry me the rest of the way.”

She snorts and crouches beside me, gently lifting the leg of my shorts to check the bandage. “So far, so good. But I grabbed extra supplies in case you pop a stitch.”

“Thanks.” I wave toward the stairs. “Can everyone else move ahead instead of gawking at me?”

Margot trails her fingers against the back of my knee, just a second, but it sends a pleasurable shiver over my skin, motivating me to move my ass.

She stands and tucks her hair behind her ear, maneuvering around us. “I’ll get the door.”

Murphy follows her, but Rooster lingers, keeping a few steps behind Wrath and me—backup in case I go tumbling down the stairs or something.

After what feels like a three-mile climb on one leg, we finally reach the top. That tug-and-pull sensation from earlier has graduated into a deep, grinding throb that sets my teeth on edge.

“Fuck,” I mutter, drawing in a ragged breath. “That sucked ass.”

Inside Margot’s apartment, Murphy’s already sitting at one of the stools at the counter.

“Make yourself at home, jolly ginger,” I grumble, kicking off the Crocs and hobbling over to claim the other stool.

He spins and flashes a smug grin. “Margot actually made us bread.”

“What?” I lower myself slowly, careful not to jolt my leg.

Margot turns, all sweetness and sheepish smiles. “Well, I didn’t know the intense turn the evening was going to take.” She stares pointedly at my outstretched leg.

Sure. Me getting stabbed is clearly the shocking part of the evening. Not her calmly slitting a man’s throat in front of my brothers.

“I thought it’d be funny,” she explains, lifting the lid on what looks like a small stainless steel spaceship. “Since Jigsaw’s code was using the oven to bake some bread .” She slips on potholders and wrangles a silver pan out of the machine. “If I actually made bread.”

Murphy leans in like a kid watching a magic trick, grinning from ear to ear as she flips the loaf onto a cutting board.

Margot glances up, her gaze flicking between Wrath and Rooster. A faint blush creeps into her cheeks. “Sorry I don’t have more chairs.”

Rooster lifts a hand in a don’t-worry-about-it wave.

“We’re good,” Wrath says, angling his head to get a better look at the bread.

Margot tilts her head, checking the apartment door. “Where’s Rock?”

“Waiting in the van.” Murphy checks his phone. “We better hurry.”

“Take this to go, then.” Margot drapes a towel over the loaf and slices through it slowly with a long, serrated knife. Each slice peels away from the blade, soft and steaming.

My mouth waters. Can’t remember the last time I had bread fresh out of the oven. The scent alone’s enough to make me forget about the throbbing in my leg.

“Hey, kitty,” Rooster calls in a hushed voice.

Gretel hisses her displeasure and slinks around the corner, belly nearly scraping the floor, tail tucked tight and ears flat. She darts a suspicious glare toward Wrath, then Murphy, then makes a beeline for me.

“C’mere, girl,” I murmur.