“Not in this lifetime or the afterlife.” He offers up an unrepentant grin, and I die a little on the inside in the best way possible. That’s the thing with the two of us; we keep killing each other just enough. Winning and losing each other. It’s sort of a tradition at this point. “I earned those bragging rights.”
“Okay, so you did die,” I concede with a frown. “And you came back. You didn’t run a marathon.”
“What?” He inches back with a laugh. “I’ll have you know the afterlife was very tiring. All that floating around, watching you cry over me. It was exhausting.”
I poke him in the ribs. “I did not cry that much.”
“Please. The Decision Council considered naming a celestial lake after your tear production alone. Lake Skyla Laurel. It has a nice ring to it.”
“You wish,” I say, giving his ribs a tweak, and he bucks before twirling us until we land on the couch again, pulling me over him like a blanket.
I shake my head at him. “You know you’re insufferable when you’re right.”
“And considering I’m right all the time, I must be very, very insufferable.” His eyes darken as his hand slides lower on my back. “However, I’m told I have other qualities that make up for it.”
“Mmm.” I pretend to consider this. “Your coffee-making skills are acceptable.”
“Just acceptable?”
“And you’re not terrible to look at.”
His brows arch. “High praise.”
“And you did help save all of Nephilim-kind, so there’s that.”
“A minor accomplishment.”
I nod as if agreeing. “And you’re pretty good at?—”
His mouth covers mine, swallowing whatever witty comment I was about to make. Not that I mind. Some conversations are better had without words. And Logan Oliver shows me exactly what he’s very,verygood at.
When we break apart, I’m breathless in that way where I might actually pass out. Logan does this to me every single time, and honestly? This man is worth the oxygen deprivation.
“I say we take this party upstairs,” I whisper against his lips.
Logan doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms under my legs and back and whisks me right off the couch. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
“Kidnapping your own wife? That’s a new level of desperate,” I tease, trailing my fingers down his chest.
“Desperate?” He stops mid-step. “I can take you back to the couch.”
“Try it and die, Oliver.”
No sooner do we hit the stairs than another set of knocks erupts at the door. Three sharp raps that somehow pierce through the cacophony of the storm—far more caustic than any of Laken and Wesley’s docile knocks.
I slide my feet to the floor with a sigh that contains at least seven different curse words. “If that’s Ellis with another one of his emergency barbecue sauce situations, I’m staging an intervention.”
Logan’s eyes narrow as he moves toward the door. “At this hour, in this storm? It’s not Ellis. And it certainly isn’t Laken or Wes.”
My stomach drops as I follow him. We exchange a quick glance before he opens the door, revealing exactly who I feared we’d find—my mother.
Candace Messenger stands on our doorstep, seemingly untouched by the raging storm around her. Not a single golden curl is disturbed, not one drop of rain has dared to land on her pristine, white glowing gown. Her electric blue eyes, mirror images of my own, spark with something akin to triumph as she takes us in.
Candace and I are twins in every way. Much like Demetri did with Gage and Wes, my mother also hit the copy and paste button with me.
That tiny dimple in her right cheek deepens as she smiles. “Good evening.” Those two words typically sound serene, but for some reason, when my mother breathes them in our direction, they sound like a threat. A threat she’s ready to make good on.
“Candace.” Logan steps back and extends an arm for her to enter. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
