Page 98 of Own
Grace didn’t flinch.
She met his venom with that same calm, unshakable presence. Eyes like frozen fire, so wide, sharp, and impossibly blue. She stood there, silent witness as we dismantled Reznik piece by piece. No pity. No triumph.
And when he finally cracked? She gave the faintest nod. No celebration. No gloating. Just cold acceptance.
Fierce. Unbreakable. Stronger than I ever could have imagined.
Pride burned in me—hot, steady. For her. For my boys. For this damn team that somehow held the line when everything else fell apart. I gave them the night to rest while I pored over the mess we’d just crawled out of. Though, judging by the sounds drifting down the hall, rest wasn’t exactly the priority.
When Voodoo walked in and started brewing coffee before even sitting, I almost laughed.
He just shook his head with that half-exasperated, half-amused look he wore so well.
“I’m going to kidnap her at some point,” he said. “Sharing’s fine, as long as some of you remember how to share.”
I didn’t smile. Just gave him a long, pointed stare.
“I’ll bring her back,” he added, then smirked. “And yeah, I’ll make sure you know exactly where I take her.”
That was enough.
I nodded.
It took most of the night to sift through Reznik’s confession—cross-checking, parsing, verifying every sick little detail. Around four a.m., Alphabet wandered in, yawning like a damn lion, shirtless, covered in hickeys and fresh scratch marks he clearly wasn’t trying to hide.
One look at us, one grunt, and he disappeared with Goblin to give the dog a walk. No questions, no commentary.
When he came back, he fired up his laptop and dropped into the grind without a word.
Then Lunchbox strolled in, smug as sin, wearing the self-satisfied look of a man who'd just eaten well and slept better. No shame. No rush. Just sauntered in like he owned the place.
I didn’t even hesitate—dumped the grunt work straight in his lap. Felt zero guilt.
Hell, I almost enjoyed it.
Grace came down nearly an hour later, moving slow and deliberate—like every step was a silent negotiation with soremuscles. I paused mid-scroll, watching her carefully measured movements. She didn’t limp, but damn if it wasn’t close.
Lunchbox was on his feet before she hit the bottom step, launching like he’d been shot out of a cannon. Off to make food—his version of penance—but not before handing her a mug of coffee and dropping a soft kiss to her lips.
She murmured something low and grateful, then made her rounds.
At Alphabet’s chair, she pressed a kiss to the top of his head. He grinned like a kid at Christmas, leaning into it while she crouched beside him to greet Goblin. It wasn’t the motion that gave her away—it was the care. The way her body moved like it remembered everything from the night before. She was sore, and not from combat.
Voodoo didn’t even speak, just tilted his head back as she passed. She met him with an easy kiss, then stepped on.
When her eyes landed on me, I didn’t move—just raised a brow.
She lifted her coffee in a lazy salute, smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“You get nothing until I can walk straight again,” she said, voice like smoke and steel.
I didn’t miss a beat. “Then maybe you should stop trying to outpace four men like you’re bulletproof.”
She took a sip of coffee, slow and smug. “Where’s the fun in that?”
I snorted, returning my focus to the screen. “Y’all are degenerates,” I muttered. Then, louder, “Next time, give her a break before she starts limping like she took shrapnel.”
Grace eased down into the chair opposite me and winked. “That’s not limp—that’s swagger.”
