Music plays from a speaker somewhere, mixing with laughter and conversation and the sizzle of meat on the grill.
This is Dalla's childhood home.
The house where she grew up, the yard where she played, the porch where she probably sat with her mother and dreamed about the future.
I can see traces of her everywhere—in the climbing rose that twines up the porch railing, in the tree house perched in the old oak tree, in the worn path through the grass that leads to a hammock strung between two pines.
I can picture her here as a little girl—blonde pigtails, stubborn chin, already too smart for her own good.
Running through this yard, climbing that tree, growing up surrounded by love and chaos and the fierce protection of her family.
Someday, our child will play in this yard too.
Will run across this grass, climb these trees, be surrounded by this same loud, loving, chaotic family.
The thought makes something warm bloom in my chest.
The ring box is burning a hole in my pocket.
"You okay?" Dalla asks, squeezing my hand. "You seem nervous."
"I'm fine." I force a smile, hoping she can't hear how hard my heart is pounding. "Just not used to big family gatherings."
"You'll get used to it." She grins up at me, completely oblivious to what's about to happen. "This is nothing. Wait until Christmas. Mom goes all out. There's like forty people here, minimum, and she cooks enough food to feed an army."
God help me.
Fern sweeps Dalla into a hug the moment we walk through the gate, fussing over her bruises and asking about her appetite and whether she's been taking her prenatal vitamins.
She's wearing an apron that says "Grill Master's Wife" and her hair is escaping from its ponytail, but she's glowing with happiness.
Her daughter is safe. Her grandchild is healthy, and now she gets to feed everyone she loves.
Runes shakes my hand with a grip that's almost friendly—a far cry from the death glares he used to give me.
Amazing what saving his daughter's life and putting a bullet in her kidnapper will do for a relationship.
He puts me to work at the grill with Fenrir, which I'm starting to realize is some kind of family bonding ritual.
"Heard you're sticking around," Fenrir says, flipping burgers with practiced ease.
He's a big man—bigger than me—with tattoos covering every visible inch of skin and a beard that would make a Viking jealous.
VP of the Raiders of Valhalla.
"That's the plan."
"Good." He hands me a spatula. "Dalla deserves someone who's going to be there. Not some fly-by-night asshole who disappears when things get hard."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know. If I thought you were, we'd be having a very different conversation." He grins, taking the edge off the words. "Welcome to the family, brother. Try not to burn the burgers."
I manage not to burn the burgers.
Small victories.
As the afternoon wears on, I find myself relaxing into the chaos.
