Saoirse beams. “You gotta have a strong perimeter fence. Or the dragons get in.”
“Smart kid,” I say.
She gives me a look of fierce approval. “Thank you, giant.”
Twig chokes on a laugh.
Once Saoirse’s in pajamas and has been ferried upstairs—after one more “macushla,” a kiss from Brodie, and a pat on Cotton’s belly that makes my chest twist in a way I’m not examining—we’re left with the four of us and the crackle of the fire.
Cotton eyes Twig’s laptop. “Are you getting back on?”
“Not tonight,” Twig says, fingers drumming on the closed lid. “Bran’s right. I need a buffer zone.”
“Say that again,” I say. “I want it on record. The ‘Bran’s right’ part.”
“Don’t push it,” she says.
She looks…exhausted. Not just physically. There’s a bone-deep kind of tired in the set of her mouth, the way she keeps rolling her shoulders like she’s trying to shake off a weight no one else can see.
“Come on,” Cotton says, reaching for the remote. “We need a palate cleanser. Christmas trash or baking shows?”
“There was this serial killer documentary I wanted to watch—” Twig starts.
“No,” three voices say at once.
Cotton clicks on some holiday movie where everyone has perfect teeth and emotional epiphanies in under ninety minutes. She leans into Brodie’s side. He drops his arm along the back of the couch, fingers absently drawing circles on her shoulder.
Twig watches them for a moment, something unreadable in her eyes.
“You two are disgusting,” she says.
“Thank you,” Cotton says serenely.
Brodie smirks. “Don’t worry,macushla. We’ll tone it down so we don’t scandalize the guests.”
“Please don’t,” Twig says. “If I stop rolling my eyes at you, I’ll start thinking about other things.”
Her gaze flicks toward me, then away.
I pretend not to notice.
We get about half an hour into the movie before Cotton starts yawning in earnest. Brodie shepherds her upstairs, murmuring something about feet and rest and “I’ve got you,macushla,” leaving me and Twig alone with flickering firelight and a cartoonishly good-looking couple on the TV arguing about mistletoe.
“You can go to bed, you know,” Twig says after a while, eyes on the screen. “I’m not going to spontaneously combust if left unattended for ten minutes.”
“Not taking that bet,” I say.
She snorts softly. “Control freak.”
“I prefer ‘experienced risk assessor,’” I say.
She glances over at me, then down at her hands. Her fingers are worrying the seam of the blanket in her lap.
“Earlier,” she says quietly, “when you said…he doesn’t get to define me. You…meant that?”
It’s the second time she’s asked. The repeat tells me it matters more than she wants it to.
I lean forward, forearms on my knees.
