Page 189 of What We Become

We tour the floor.

Milo provides commentary nobody requested—rating equipment, critiquing technique, offering suggestions to a couple who are three orgasms past caring about his opinion. Knox stays at Sage’s shoulder. Micah glides through the room like he belongs to every inch of it, smiling that soft lethal smile of his while he keeps one eye on Sage and the other on everything else. Eli is looser than I’ve seen him in days, leash wrapped once around his hand, his attention fixed on her with the devotional focus he never bothers to hide.

Sage takes it in. The suspended benches. The St. Andrew’s crosses. The low couches crowded with silk and skin and voyeurism. A woman on her knees in a sequined bra looks up as we pass and gives Sage a slow, appreciative smile. Sage gives one back.

There it is.

The shift.

No fear tonight.

Ownership.

I watch it happen in real time—the room moving from something that might swallow her to something she can wear.

We pass the voyeur rooms. A demonstration on the main stage—intricate rope work performed by two people who clearly know their stuff. Sage watches with her lip between her teeth. Eli’s hand rests on the back of her neck, thumb tracing the leather collar.

“Interested?” he murmurs.

“Curious.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Curious means I want to watch. Interested means I want to try.”

“Understood.”

We settle into the VIP section. Burgundy leather, black glass table, lighting designed for people who want to see without being fully seen. Sage sits in the center. Knox to her left. Eli to her right. Milo, Micah, and me across.

Drinks arrive. The music shifts. And for a while—an hour, maybe more—we’re just us.

Milo tells the story of when he tried to teach his dads to play poker and Dennis cried. Micah and Knox get into a debate about whether proper martini proportions matter more than whether the glass could double as a weapon.

“It absolutely matters,” Micah says, horrified on behalf of civilization. “Ratios are the difference between elegance and regret.”

Knox lifts his whiskey. “If it gets you drunk, it worked.”

“That,” Micah says, pointing at him like he’s identified a public threat, “is exactly the type of reasoning that leads grown men to wear square-toed dress shoes.”

Milo gasps. “You can’t pick on Knox’s giant feet on Sage’s birthday!”

Sage laughs, bright and loose and a little disbelieving still, like she hasn’t fully adjusted to being this happy in public. The sound punches me right in the guts, and I want to wrap her in cotton wool and flowers.

I force myself to drink and watch her over the rim of my glass.

She’s only grown bolder since we walked in, enjoying the knowledge that the whole room is watching her and hoping they’ll get to see more. It’s the opposite of who she was when we first met. Back then, all she wanted to do was melt into the shadows. Now she wants to rule them.

A server appears with another round and a black envelope on a silver tray.

“For Miss Adams,” she says.

Sage takes it, brows lifting. “What is this?”

“Compliments of Mr. Odin.”

Milo groans immediately. “If he’s trying to outdo the SUV, I’m filing a grievance.”

The server smiles and glides away.