Page 74 of Property of Bones

Something in her voice pulls me up short.

I turn, eyes narrowing slightly. “Someone other than your brother?” I ask gently, remembering our conversation about her feelings for Tank.

“He’ll never love me back,” she says quietly, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

“Oh, Abby,” Riley breathes, stepping forward to wrap her in a hug. “Tank already loves you. He’s just scared. Scared he’s not enough.”

“Then he doesn’t love me as much as I love him,” Abby says, voice cracking. “Because if he did… being with me would be worth the risk.”

My chest squeezes. Hard. I step up behind her and slide my arms around her waist, hugging her tightly from behind.

She needs this.

Needs to feel how loved she is, even when she thinks she’s alone.

Freaking Tank.

“If that man doesn’t pull his head out of his leather-clad behind soon, I swear I’ll kick his huge freaking butt. Or I’ll cry until Jack does it for me.”

Abby lets out a watery laugh, swiping at her face. “Alright,” she says, exhaling slowly. “Let’s get on with the tour.”

“Good,” Riley grins, looping her arm through Abby’s. “Because if you started crying again, Sunny was two seconds away from going full ninja on Tank.”

“Oh, that was only my warning speech,” I smirk. “You should hear the full death threat.”

Abby snorts and nudges me with her elbow. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously lovable,” Riley corrects.

We start walking again, the heavy tension from moments before slowly replaced by something steadier. Stronger. A reminder that no matter what chaos is going down above ground, we’ve got each other down below.

***Bones***

The war room feels colder than usual.

It’s not the air…it’s the presence. Two chairs at the far end of the table are occupied by men I don’t currently care for.

None of his men got in. That was Spike’s rule. The two of them entered alone, stripped of weapons. Though no one here believes for a second they’re unarmed.

Every officer is at the table. No one says a damn word.

Except Spike.

“You said you wanted to talk,” Spike says, voice calm and deadly. “So, talk.”

Muerte leans back with the ease of someone who’s always been in control.

“Straight to business,” he says, his accent smooth and deliberate. “I respect that.”

He glances at Max. The bastard doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“Your cousin,” Muerte continues, looking at Spike now. “Billy. One of mine. Un grano pequeño. A very small… blemish.”

“Killed him myself,” I admit. “Fucker was killing people with Fentanyl. Wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Muerte shrugs. “He was meant to hold the product. Nothing more. He got greedy. Made choices I did not authorize. Cost lives. Created chaos. I do not tolerate chaos.”

“He’s dead,” Spike says. “Problem solved.”

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