"Don't jinx it, Lightning Rod."
"GET THE PICTURES!" Emily suddenly shouts, launching herself toward the door. "I need to see Disco Lucian!"
"NO!" Lucian races after her. "Erik, I swear to god, if those photos see the light of day, I'm telling Bryn about the Renaissance Fair incident!"
"What's a Renaissance Fair incident?" Bryn's voice drifts up from downstairs.
"NOTHING!" Both Erik and Lucian shout.
Sable's laughter rings through the room, the sweet sound making something in my chest expand with warmth.
Even Damon—my usually always serious brother—breaks his composure, his shoulders shaking as he joins in the mirth, one arm still protectively around Sable's waist.
I lean back against Rhyland's chest. This is what matters. This hodgepodge collection of misfits we've somehow stitched together into something resembling a family. Despite the cosmic chess game we're unwilling pawns in, despite death and resurrection and magical stones and evil queens—we still find these pockets of normalcy.
Where vampires debate superhero movies—witch BFFs sleep with shape-shifting demons, and my man holds me like I'm the anchor to his centuries-old soul.
Danica
72
Aftera few chaotic weeks, we've managed to find our rhythm again in this mansion full of vampires, witches, angels, and one shape-shifting demon with a Marvel obsession. Rosa's Thanksgiving feast has left us in an epic food coma—the woman is a culinary sorceress, and I would literally fight anyone for the recipe to her pecan pie. Now I'm sprawled on the couch next to Damon, wondering if I'll ever move again without rolling like Violet Beauregarde post-blueberry transformation.
"So, you and Sable, huh?" I nudge his shoulder, curling deeper into the overstuffed cushions. The fireplace casts dancing shadows across my brother's face, his hazel eyes still holding that same gentle warmth they had when Dad first brought him home. It's been too long since we've had a moment like this—just us, no apocalyptic drama, no supernatural crisis demanding immediate attention. Even Lucian's constant commentary has been silenced, either by food coma or whatever he and Seraphina are doing behind closed doors.
Damon's cheeks flush with that telltale pink that somehow survived his vampire transition. "Yeah," he says, ruffling his hair in that nervous habit he's had since we were kids. "Just kind of happened, you know?"
I tuck my feet under me, feeling the heat from the fire warm my toes through my fuzzy socks. "Hmm-mm," I agree, watching the flames dance. "I sure do." One minute you're a normal human with normal problems, and the next, you're mated to a thousand-year-old vampire with anger management issues and a hero complex.
"Are you happy? You know, after everything?" The question hangs between us, heavy with unspoken weight. My brother—the scared little boy I once taught to tie his shoelaces—transformed into the very creature he once called a "walking blood bank with attitude problems."
Damon's laugh breaks the moment, his fangs flashing briefly before he retracts them with practiced ease. "Happy? I'm dating a pink-haired witch-turned-vampire. And my sister's banging Thor's grandson." He tugs at my hair like he used to when we were kids. "We've come a long way from algebra homework, huh?"
"Excuse you," I sniff, swatting his hand away. "I believe the term is 'mated to,' not 'banging.' Have some class, Sasquatch." The childhood nickname—from when he shot up six inches one summer—slips out naturally.
His eyes crinkle. "Sasquatch? Wow, bringing out the vintage insults. Remember when you convinced me mosquitoes would explode if I ate enough garlic bread?"
"Your face at Olive Garden! Three baskets and a flyswatter!"
"I was ten!" he protests, laughing. "And you were supposed to be the smart one!"
"I was smart enough to get you to do my chores for a month by threatening to tell Jessica Miller you had a crush on her," I counter, poking him in the ribs.
He groans, covering his face. "God, Jessica Miller. With the braces and the—"
"—obsession with horses," we finish in unison, dissolving into giggles like we're kids again.
When our laughter fades, Damon's expression grows thoughtful. "You didn't answer my question," I remind him softly.
He takes an unnecessary breath—old habits die hard. "With Sable? Definitely. The rest... Some days I wake up and forget what happened, reach for my coffee, and then remember I don't need it anymore." He meets my eyes. "But when I'm with her, none of that matters. She makes me feel... alive."
I squeeze his hand. "I'm glad. She's good for you. And if she ever isn't, I'll kick her perky vampire ass myself."
The threat is empty and we both know it—Sable has become as much my family as he is. But it's the principle of the thing. Big sisters have to maintain their reputation, after all.
He squeezes back, his strength carefully measured. "Spoken like a true big sister." His smile turns mischievous. "Speaking of asses that need kicking, how's life with the Viking? Still leaving his wet towels on the bathroom floor?"
"Oh my god," I groan, flopping back. "How did you know? A thousand years on this earth, and the man can't figure out a hamper."
