I thought they may protest us staying here, but they responded far more amicably than expected, which was good because my mind was made up. We briefly considered returning to New Orleans, but Wells argued that owning the whole Vegas wedding and needing-a-respite-from-her-brothers angle was the best play with KORT. That way, if Balzano crafts a claim about Rena or us, regarding his loss of men, it will seem like he’s reaching. If he slings an accusation, no one will buy that we did what he claimed and stuck around to vacation.
The proximity to Balzano was my primary objection toremaining here. But only the Noires and KORT know we’re here. So, an attack on Rena would be far too risky.
My family has stayed with us, and we’ve settled into a comfortable rhythm. It’s a daily reminder that Rena was always meant to be with us. She fits. Because she’s always fit.
Ivy and Gage are dancing around while they cook. One of Ivy’s magical powers is getting the Big Guy to forget he’s pissed off at the world. Even considering his penchant for baked goods, it’s astounding. Although so are the historical romance shows Celeste has him addicted to.
So much of our bonding time transpires in the kitchen—that arrived with the freckled ginger too. Before her, we spent our nights drinking on the patio, convincing ourselves that we weren’t lonely souls.
The glass doors are wide open for indoor-outdoor living, permitting the comfortable May temps to filter inside. The sun is shining. Some ’90’s rock is trilling from the speakers. Celeste is pouring drinks for everyone at the island, where my wife sits in her cropped T-shirt and itty-bitty shorts. Her hair is twirled into a knot atop her head, and her nipples are announcing their presence loud and clear. Maybe that should bother me, but all I can think is that she’s fucking mine.
And the tiniest doll enriching my view is Felicity, bopping her little limbs and cooing to the beat of the music while dangling from the papoose on Liam’s chest.
Wells glances over at me as I enter and dips his chin, indicating that he’s reading all the sappy shit swarming me. It’s likely flooding him just as much. The man is a big softy, and all of this is beyond what he ever thought he could offer us.
This whole damn scene is so picturesque. All that life should be.
If it wasn’t for—
“Whatcha making for dinner?” Rena asks, swigging one of Liam’s Modelos, which has surely solidified her spot in his heart. No one ever drinks beer with him.
“Meatloaf,” Ivy says to which Liam muffles a laugh in Felicity’s full head of hair, Gage arches his brow, and Wells clears his throat.
Rena glances at me with a quizzical tilt of her angelic face, but I have no desire to share the reason everyone reacts that way.
But Liam? No fucking qualms. He leans in and whispers in her ear, probably offering up the intel that we’re pretty suremeatloafis Ivy and Wells’s safe word. Or something else sexual. I really don’t want to know.
But much to Liam’s delight, Rena claps with a whoop, hops off the island stool, and prances over to Ivy’s phone—the one controlling the playlist.
After a few seconds, Rena beams as she skips past the opening of a song and belts out the lyrics corresponding to the title for Meat Loaf’s “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That).” Ivy’s face brightens, joining her to scream the latter portion of that phrase into a spatula.
Celeste barely misses a beat, throwing her arms into the air as she bounces over to meet them. “Oh my God. How did I not get that? Fucking Meat Loaf!”
I glance at Wells, whose creased, glowing green eyes confirm that Rena was correct and that is indeed the root of the safe word, which is so Ivy.
Liam, Gage, and I all bust up laughing while the three girls flit around, crooning the song.
And that’s when it all slams into me, maybe stronger than ever before, the significance in the simple. The four of us are in utter awe. Sharing yet another moment that tethers us to one another. The girls have infused joy into our home far greater than we ever anticipated.
Life was so fucking hard. And heartbreaking. For all of us. The traumas we each endured before we found one another. And the god-awful hell we encountered side by side. But, fuck, they make breathing easier. That first second when my eyes fly open and I realize that my horrors aren’t nightmares, but are, in fact, my reality has gotten more bearable with each of them.
And now? Rena—my girl, my wife, my bright Little Moon—how did I wait so fucking long to claim her? One part heroic self-control and three parts a goddamn moron. If I had gone after her years ago, we could have avoided all this KORT bullshit. We could simply be basking in the contentedness that we’re experiencing right now, without a gloomy cloud of doom hanging over our heads.
Another example of my noble hesitation resulting in life-altering shambles.
Pushing that thought aside, I smile, pour myself a drink, and soak in the blithe spirit the girls are casting on the room.
This is the miracle of the mundane. The humdrum days that most probably take for granted. But after being propelled from one tragedy to the next, year after year, day after day, these are the trite experiences I want to bathe in—making dinner and washing dishes, dancing in the kitchen and rocking babies.
Dreams that are far too hazy in the world I’ve chosen.
Crunch. Squeak. Blood. One wrong choice.
“Fucking Christ,” Gage bellows, glaring at the jolly trio while biting back his amusement. “You’ve ruined meatloaf for me. I’ve got these goddamn visions …” He trails off, rubbing his temples, which is mainly to razz Wells.
Liam hops on that. “So, on nights we eat meatloaf, Chief, what kind of kinky-ass shit are you doing to High Society?”
Ordinarily, that would irritate the hell out of Wells, but his features are etched in adoration for his dancing Little Storm, so all he does is smirk and swill his scotch.
