Page 29 of Song Bird Hearts

“Fun,” he echoes, clearly unfamiliar with the word. But I do notice he starts sharpening a stick to use as a skewer, so there’s that.

Gilden leans closer to the fire, flipping his marshmallow with precision. “So,cher, what’s your verdict on this culinary masterpiece? I call mine the ‘Crispy Cajun.’ Little burnt on the edges, sweet in the middle, and a dash of spice to make you dance.” He grins as he adds something that definitely doesn’t belong on marshmallows. “Just like me.”

I laugh at him and wrinkle up my nose. “I prefer my marshmallows sweet.”

He wiggles his brows. “But when you get a taste of this Cajun flavor,cher, you won’t ever go back.”

Wolf, beside me, holds his stick just above the flames, a little too close. It’s like he’s never seen it before outside of a movie. The marshmallow starts to sag like it doesn’t know what it’s doing either. He watches it, his eyes thoughtful, almost. . . fascinated.

“You’ve never made a s’more before, have you?” I ask as I slap my marshmallow between chocolate and graham cracker.

“I’ve. . . observed them,” he says, which is the most Wolf answer he can give. “It never seemed essential to try it.”

Gilden chuckles. “Le loup, you ain’t lived ‘til you’ve burnt your mouth on a chocolate marshmallow mess you can’t even hold together.”

Knox hands him a graham cracker with clinical efficiency. “Here. Try not to look confused.”

Wolf raises an eyebrow, but he takes it. I watch as he carefully assembles the s’more and then takes a dainty, careful bite. His eyes flutter closed. “Oh.”

We all laugh and I’m happy to introduce Wolf to something a bit more down to earth. The man always feels like he’s from Mount Olympus or something and trying to fit in with us mere mortals.

For a moment, the night feels still. There’s no danger here, no worry. Just firelight and the occasional cracks of pine sap popping in the logs. I lean back on my elbows, gazing up at the stars peeking through the pines.

“So,” I say, watching the few fireflies brave enough to come up this high on the mountain dance, “how’d you two get into the protection business?”

Knox answers first, surprisingly. Straight and sharp, like the blade he’d been sharpening. “Army,” he says. “Special forces. Two tours.”

His voice doesn’t waver, but I feel the air shift. “Oh?” I ask.

“After I got out, civilian life felt. . . fake. Like trying to move through water wearing your boots. Too quiet and too clean. And then the nights. . .” He trails off.

I look at him, but his eyes are on the fire and almost unreadable. “You couldn’t sleep?” I ask gently. I’ve heard that mattresses feel weird when you come back from war, that things are too soft. Maybe he had the same issue.

He gave a short nod. “Not without a wall to my back.”

“And a gun under his pillow,” Gilden adds, not unkindly. As if to say, “this is just how he is,” without saying it.

Knox doesn’t deny it. “I got offered the job after a failed meeting at the VA. I took it. The rest is history.”

I touch his knee, just lightly, and he doesn’t flinch even if he doesn’t look at me either.

Gilden breaks the heavy silence with a grin and a flaming marshmallow waving around. “Now me? I got recruited after I wrestled a twelve-foot gator outta the swamp for stealin’ my mama’s chicken cutlets.”

Wolf raises a brow. “You’re joking.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gilden says proudly. “Little man with a big hat watched the whole thing from his airboat. He said anyone who could stare down death and still cuss it out in Cajun French might have some use in his organization. He gave me a card. Next thing I know, I was takin’ apart landmines in Bolivia and flirting with assassins in Monaco.”

“That. . .explains a lot,” I say, trying not to choke on the laughter around my marshmallow.

Knox mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “damn swamp rat,” but I catch the smile he hides behind his marshmallow as he finally stabs it on a viciously sharp stick.

My gaze drifts over to Wolf, the man who seems unshakeable and immaculate. He feels like he was designed in a lab rather than born. He’s certainly dangerous and devastating all at once.

“And you?” I ask. “What do you do, really? Besides stalk people. That Rolex doesn’t exactly say ‘humble beginnings.’”

He stares into the flames a long moment before answering. “Family money,” he says. “And a long list of expectations I didn’t care to meet.”

“That’s not really an answer,” I point out.

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