I drained my coffee, then stood. “Thank you. All of you.”
There was a round of grunts and nods, the men’s version of a group hug.
Bronc finished his biscuit, then clapped me on the shoulder. “Get out there, Gunner. Make us look good.”
I grinned, heading for the door, the weight in my chest replaced by something light and warm.
The world might be full of monsters, but I had the best crew in Texas backing me up.
Let them come.
The trick with a Tom Ford suit is to act like you wear it every day, not like you just took it out of the dry cleaner’s plastic and spent half an hour watching YouTube videos on how to tie a “semi-formal” tie. The truth was, I felt like a fraud in that suit, but Brie had asked for it, and there wasn’t a man alive who could say no to her when she turned those turquoise eyes on you and said, “I want you to look like a million bucks tonight.”
So I showered, used the expensive aftershave she loved, and tried not to think about how many ways this night could go off the rails. By the time I pulled into the lot across the street, I’d gotten my nerves down to a dull roar and convinced myself the real reason I was sweating had nothing to do with the suit.
Harper’s space didn’t even look like itself. The front windows glowed with soft light; every inch of glass was lined with string lights, trailing like a river of stars through the foyer and into the big studio. The floors shone, and there was this smell of fresh-cut flowers, buttercream, and lemon polish. Tables were set with white linens, little gold-trimmed flyers, and arrangements of wildflowers in mismatched vases. Someone had even managed to get a soft jazz playlist going, which made the whole place feel more like a speakeasy than a dance studio for little girls. I knew that Brie had hired a string quartet that would arrive and start playing soon. She thought they’d “class the place up” just right.
The main attraction on the food side was the cake Aspen had delivered. It was four tiers, stacked in a way I’d never seen before: instead of circles, each layer was a triangle, the edges lined with gold leaf; the surfaces painted with delicate brushstrokes of color that mirrored the gallery’s palette. There were sugar flowers in the same purple and green as Brie’s dress, and a big, abstract wolf made of blown sugar crowning the top tier. Aspen stood off to the side, hands folded, watching the cake like it might try to escape. And she was her own cute little work of art dressed in a flowing hot pink dress with a high waist, big white daisy appliques and a scoop neck. Her hair was in its signature high ponytail, and her green eyes almost glowed.I caught a glimpse of Oscar when his head popped out from under the tablecloth on the floor. He gave me a little salute and disappeared.
I stopped at the table and grinned. “That’s a work of art, Asp.”
She smiled, cheeks pink, then shushed me. “Don’t make me cry. If I cry, I’ll mess up my eyeliner, and Juliet will kill me.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Gallery’s locked down for final touches. Most folks are changing or doing last-minute stuff at home. Harper and Parker are upstairs trying to pin Juliet into her dress. Brie’s in her office, probably having a panic attack.”
Aspen reached out, straightened my tie, and gave a little nod. “You look nice, Finn. Very… grown up.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s the meanest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”
“Just wait,” she said, then drifted off to talk to the florist.
I wandered through the space, hands in my pockets, just absorbing the vibe. It was weird—seeing the whole pack’s work in one room, knowing how many of them had bled or fought or nearly died for the privilege of eating canapés under a string of twinkle lights. I thought about the nightmares, about the weight of Maltraz’s attention, but right now, it was like all that darkness belonged to someone else.
I made a circuit of the room, chatting with prospects as they set up chairs and rearranged hi-top tables, checking the perimeter out of habit. Nothing felt off. Even the air was calm.
Then I wandered over to the gallery side. There she was at the top of the staircase that led down from the gallery’s mezzanine office.
Brie.
She stood there, both hands on the rail, her dress flowing behind her like she were riding a breeze no one else could see. The sage green was lighter than it looked in her closet, almost silver in the artificial light, and the flashes of purple were like violet lightning every time she moved. The neckline plunged, and every inch of skin was dusted with a shimmer thatmade her look unearthly. Her hair was up in a twist, with the blue streaks fanned out like flames at the nape of her neck. Around her throat were three necklaces, each more complicated than the last, and she’d gone heavy on the eye makeup, smoky and smudged and just a little wild. The effect was somewhere between debutante and bandit queen.
My breath left me like I’d taken a punch.
She didn’t walk—she floated down the stairs, pausing halfway to look out over the room. People actually stopped talking to watch her. Even the servers. I wasn’t the only one slack-jawed.
At the bottom, she hesitated, then caught my eye. That grin—mischief and relief in one package—broke the spell, and she ran the last few steps to me, nearly slipping in her boots.
I caught her, arms around her waist. She pressed her face into my shoulder, then whispered, “Don’t say anything. Just hold me.”
“Gladly,” I said, squeezing her tight. “You okay?”
She leaned back, eyes shining. “Not even a little. But I will be.”
“You look—” I tried to find the words, but nothing fit. “—like you.”
She smiled, then pecked my cheek, careful not to get her lipstick on me. “You look pretty damn good yourself, cowboy. I don’t know whether to kiss you or frisk you for weapons.”
