Page 188 of What We Become

He unbuckles her everyday collar and lays it carefully on the hall table before fastening the new one around her throat. His fingers are steady. Hers aren’t. The leather sits against her pulse, the silver catching the light until she looks like something out of a painting that would get a museum shut down.

“There will be more gifts when we get home,” Milo says, practically vibrating. “After cake. You’re going to lose your mind. But first—” He holds up a finger. “Everyone outside.”

“We’re going to the club, Milo,” Eli says. “We know.”

“Yes, but we’re going to the club in style.” He’s already at the front door, holding it open with the grin of a man who’s been keeping a secret so hard it’s been physically painful. “Birthday girl first.”

Sage glances at me. I shrug, because I genuinely don’t know what he’s done and that’s a rare and unsettling position to be in.

She steps onto the porch. Stops.

In the driveway, under the streetlight, sits a brand-new black SUV with a white bow the size of a small child strapped across the hood.

So this is what he’s been hiding. The custom work and registration would have taken weeks. Whatever he asked her at the diner yesterday, this was already waiting.

Sage’s hand goes to her mouth.

“Before you say it’s too much,” Milo says, appearing at her shoulder, “it seats all six of us comfortably, has bulletproof glass—because I’m me—a custom sound system, heated seats for Knox’s back, and enough trunk space for what Holden calls ‘operational equipment’ and what normal people call ‘a terrifying amount of rope.’”

Sage turns to him. Her eyes are wet.

“Milo.”

“There’s also a personalized plate. The DMV wouldn’t let me register MURDER KITTEN, so I went with K1TNCRW.”

Her gaze drops to the plate, set inside a baby-pink frame stamped KITTEN’S CREW. It undoes her. She grabs his face and kisses him hard. When she pulls back, he looks stunned, which is not a look Milo wears often or well.

“I love it,” she says. “I love you.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “Okay. Good. Because the return policy was very unclear and I think I accidentally threatened the dealer.”

Knox takes the keys from Milo’s hand without a word and walks to the driver’s side. The rest of us follow. Sage runs her hand along the hood as she passes it, fingers tracing the edge of the bow, looking as though she can’t believe this is her life and she’s trying to hold the feeling before it slips.

She pulls the bow free, and then I open the rear door for her. She climbs in. Eli follows. I take the other side. Micah and Milo load into the middle row. Knox adjusts the mirrors.

We pull out of the driveway. Six people in a bulletproof SUV on a Saturday night, heading to a club where the woman in the back seat is wearing a leather collar and nothing under her dress and every man in this vehicle would commit war crimes to keep her smiling.

Happy birthday to all of us.

The club always hits different when you walk in as a unit.

I’ve been coming to Unholy Desires for years—first as an outsider, then as an operative, then as something in between. I know its rhythms, its personnel, the way the lighting shifts from red to gold as you move deeper into the building. I know where the cameras are, where the blind spots live, where Odin sits when he wants to watch and where he sits when he wants to be watched.

But tonight I’m not cataloging. Tonight I’m letting myself enjoy the night.

At the entrance, the doorman hands us six silver masks. Once they’re in place, Eli clips a slim chain leash to the D-ring at Sage’s throat. She lifts her chin as he winds the loose end once around his hand.

Eli leads, the chain catching the low light in thin silver flashes. Sage is half a step behind—chin up, shoulders back, the dress moving against her body like it’s been paid to advertise. Knox flanks right. I take left. Milo and Micah fall in behind us.

Heads turn. Of course they do.

A woman at the bar pauses mid-drink to track us. A couple in a booth stops mid-conversation. Two men on the lounge seats lean forward with the synchronized attention of spectators who just realized the main event has arrived—and after the show we put on a few nights ago, I don’t blame them.

My attention should be on the room. Instead, it keeps dropping to Sage’s ass in that dress—the way she carries herself like she owns the place and forgot to send the eviction notices. The collar catches the light every time she turns her head, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

The concierge greets us near the main floor—dark hair, headset, the practiced warmth of a woman whose job is to make the depraved feel welcome. “Good evening. Happy birthday, Miss Adams. Your room is prepared whenever you’re ready. Please enjoy the floor in the meantime.”

“Thank you,” Sage says, and her voice is the steady version now. The one that means she’s landed.