Page 29 of The Guarded Monster’s Truth

Each piece makes us harder to erase. The CIA didn't quit. They decided we cost more to silence than to ignore

We married in August, a Saturday, the compound yard strung with lights Finn hung while Jess told him the spacing looked crooked. Finn rehung three strands. They looked identical to the first attempt.

Knox officiated. Nobody argued. The brothers lined the fence behind him, patched cuts facing forward.

The vows stayed short. His: "I spent eleven years earning my seat. You showed me it was mine."

Mine: "I came for a story. I found the source I'd protect forever."

Sarah cried before I finished my second sentence. Garrett's purr rattled the mason jars on the front table. Lily read a poem she'd written for the occasion, complete with footnotes. Colt kissed the top of her head and told her the footnotes were a nice touch.

We spend Thanksgiving at the compound. The table stretches the length of the common room, expanded twice since last year with plywood and sawhorses Finn built and Sarah covered with tablecloths she ironed this morning.

Knox and Sarah sit at the head. Reeve stands on the bench between them, almost three, reaching for the turkey with both hands while Knox redirects him toward the rolls without looking down.

Sarah catches my eye across the spread and mouths help with the half-smile of a woman who stopped controlling the situation two courses ago. The delegation hangs between them, planned for spring, voted on in Church last month. Torgan's death split the Bloodstone Clan into three factions, and Drogmar won't hold the throne much longer. Knox will go. Sarah and Reeve go with him. The brothers didn't let him finish his sentence before the votes landed: We go with you. Not a request but a statement from nine men who spent a decade riding behind him and refused to let the hardest ride be the one he takes alone.

Finn carves the turkey while his son rides Jess's hip, seventeen months old and built like his father through the jaw. He leans over to check Jess's plate and the baby's fist closes around his braid and yanks.

"He gets that from me," Jess says.

"The grip strength or the attitude?"

"Both." She shifts the baby higher and steals a bite of dark meat off Finn's plate. He doesn't stop her. He keeps cutting.

Garrett and Nina take the chairs across from us. Their baby—born in February, ten months old—sleeps against Garrett's shoulder with one fist curled against his collar. Nina reaches for the salt, and Garrett's hand lands on the shaker before hers does. He passes it without turning his head. She covers his hand on the table. The purr rolls out of him low enough that the water in the nearest glass trembles.

Rex steals a roll from the bread basket while Holly frames the scene through her phone.

"I'm documenting."

"You've documented six rolls. I'm hungry."

She photographs him eating it. Rex angles his jaw toward the light because life with Holly has taught him she'll use the photo regardless, and he might as well look decent.

Colt and Ellie anchor the middle with Lily between them. Lily leans across toward Betty, gesturing with a fork.

"If the internal temperature hits 165, the bird is safe. But the USDA revised their poultry guidelines in 2023 to account for—"

"Baby girl," Betty says, "I've been cooking turkey since before your guidelines existed."

"The USDA was established in 1862."

"I know when it was established. I'm making a point."

Gerald pats Betty's knee under the table. Betty's pinkie finds his across the tablecloth. A woman who's cooked more turkeys than Lily's been alive for versus a thirteen-year-old with internet access, and neither one gives ground.

Bruiser's phone rests beside his plate, the scanner app running its quiet sweep. The green bar cycling across the screen reads like his version of grace, a man checking the perimeter so everyone here can eat in peace. The horn pendant sits at my throat, warm from my skin. His hand rests on my thigh under the table, settled and still.

I eat. He watches the room. We've stopped pretending this isn't how it works.

Diesel comes through the door twenty minutes late with his helmet tucked under his arm. He drops into the empty chair between Rex and Chain and pushes his sleeves up to grab a plate.

New ink on his forearm, below the compass rose. A wolf in profile, the linework tight and precise, too clean to come from anyone but Kim Wallace.

Rex grips Diesel's wrist and turns it toward the candlelight. "When'd you get that?"

"Last week." Diesel loads his plate with one hand while Rex holds the other. "Tuesday session. She does her best work on Tuesdays."