Page 96 of Burned in Stone
“Drink,” Maggie orders, shoving a glass in his hand. “All of you. Especially you two.” She points at Stone and Lee.
Stone takes his. Lee looks at his like it might bite.
“She’s an adult,” Poppy says gently, rubbing his arm.
“I know. But I also know what Bones is doing to her right now, and I need that knowledge surgically removed from my brain.”
“Pretty sure there’s not enough alcohol in the world for that,” Duck observes.
“Thanks, Duck. Very helpful.”
Upstairs, Emma laughs—bright and free—and everyone freezes.
“She sounds happy,” Kya offers quietly.
Stone drains his glass. Doesn’t respond.
“When’s the last time you heard her laugh like that?” Maggie asks.
Stone’s jaw works. “Not in a long time.”
“Then maybe this is a good thing.” Maggie refills his glass. “Because right now? Your daughter is home, she’s safe, and she’s happy. Can you just... let her have this?”
Stone looks toward the ceiling, then back at his drink. “I’m still going to kill him.”
“Fair enough. But maybe wait until morning.”
Duck turns on the Bluetooth speaker, and the Christmas music from earlier fills the kitchen. “All right, enough doom and gloom. Emma’s home. Summit’s going down. Gabriel’s in jail. We’ve had a hell of a day, but we’re still standing.”
“Barely,” Lee mutters.
“Barely counts.” Duck raises his glass. “To family. The kind you choose and the kind that drives you absolutely insane.”
“Hear, hear,” several voices chorus.
Glasses clink. The tension eases as people drift into conversation—comparing notes, making plans for rebuilding Devil’s, speculating about Emma and Bones in voices low enough that Stone can’t hear.
I relax against Cash, exhaustion hitting.
“You good?” he murmurs.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
“I’d offer to take you up to bed. But…”
I giggle. “It’s otherwise occupied.”
“Hmm.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “We can sleep in my old room tonight.”
“Anywhere with a bed is fine.” I look up at him. “As long as it’s with you.”
He wraps his arms around me, and we sway to the music, my cheek pressed to his jaw, the scruff catching at my hair in a way that makes me feel stupidly soft and safe.
The front door opens. Josie walks in carrying her briefcase and laptop, looking ready for work. She takes one look at the scene—bottles everywhere, Christmas music, people dancing, Stone drunk at the counter—and stops.
“What... happened? I thought we were… Emma? Summit?”
“Long story,” Maggie says. “But everything’s OK for now so we’re celebrating being alive.” She grabs a glass and the closest bottle. “Want a drink?”
