Page 172 of What We Become

I stop mid-pour. “I’m not even sure I want to celebrate this year.”

“Oh no, kitten. We’ve let all the commercial holidays slip past us. But this one is yours. You deserve to be celebrated.”

The coffee pot feels suddenly heavy in my hand. I set it down, watching the dark liquid settle. “I don’t need a party.”

He takes the sunglasses off. It’s the first time all morning I’ve seen his actual eyes.

“You almost didn’t get this one, kitten.” No voice, no bit, no bright delivery. “I’m not letting it go past unmarked.”

Then he puts them back on, and the grin comes with them.

“You need,” Milo says, “exactly what you need. Which is why I’m conducting preliminary reconnaissance rather than staging an intervention with balloons and a stripper.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You were going to hire a stripper?”

“No,” he says simply. “But Odin did offer you the use of a private playroom for the night, so the stripping part is a given—if you choose to use it, of course.”

I think of the voyeur room, the gallery counter, the way they marked me until I couldn’t even think. My fingers tease the edge of the collar as heat rolls beneath my skin, and I have to remind myself that Rosa is in the back and there are customers three booths down.

“Okay. Maybe we can celebrate at the club. Birthday sex sounds like a lot of fun.”

“Fun?” Milo repeats. “Come on, kitten. You can muster up a little more enthusiasm than ‘fun.’ How about ‘orgasmic’? ‘Transcendent’? ‘So-good-you’ll-be-walking-funny-for-the-next-week’?”

I laugh. “All of the above.”

“Okay. Cool. But I’m also required to ask—cake or no cake?”

“Cake,” I say automatically. “Obviously cake.”

“Flavor?”

“Strawberry. Layered. With cream in the middle.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He pulls out his phone and starts typing like he’s cataloging state secrets. “Strawberries. Cream. Potential for dairy-based foreplay.” He looks up. “And what about presents? Do we go practical, sentimental, or unhinged?”

I wipe down a stretch of counter that doesn’t need it. “You don’t have to get me anything.”

He narrows his eyes at me over the rim of his mug. “Incorrect. You deserve at least one outrageously thoughtful thing.”

“Milo.”

“No, let me workshop. I have categories.” He straightens like he’s about to present quarterly earnings to a boardroom. “Category one: practical-but-hot. Very dangerous category. Leather jacket. Boots. A watch with one of those faces that implies you know how to disassemble a man emotionally and physically.”

“I do know how to disassemble a man physically,” I point out.

“Exactly. Why not accessorize the skill set?” He ticks a finger in the air. “Category two: sentimental. A locket, perhaps, but instead of baby pictures it contains tiny laminated mug shots of people you’ve killed.”

I stare at him.

He sips his coffee. “Too niche?”

“Too serial killer Etsy.”

“Noted. Category three: experiential. I rent out an aquarium after hours, we have a private dinner surrounded by morally neutral fish, and then one of us proposes.”

I nearly choke on my own spit. “One of us?”

He shrugs. “I’m flexible on who. It could be you. It could be me. It could be all six of us in a staggered sequence. We workshop vows. Holden hates every second. Micah cries attractively. Knox says four words and they’re devastating. Eli somehow makes it filthy, and we all come on each other.”