Boone strides into the kitchen from upstairs, darkening the doorway for only a moment before he heads for the oven and turns it on. “Dillon and I have pictures of everything upstairs. The gym and the rest of it downstairs came through unscathed. Most of the damage seems to be contained to this floor.”
He crosses to the counter where we’ve left the groceries that don’t need refrigeration and starts unpacking. “Dinner is going to have to be simple tonight. Why don’t you guys keep me company while I cook, and we’ll pick up again tomorrow?”
“Sounds good.” Roxie drops onto one of the stools at the island and pulls out her phone. “We can go through some photos for inspiration while we’re here.”
“I’ve got some ideas already,” Dillon says as he walks in and drops onto the stool beside her. Without missing a beat, he leans closer to look at her screen over her shoulder. “Oh, I like those couches. They look obscenely comfortable. Let’s add those to your cart.”
Their chatter continues as she switches from one retailer to another, and I help Boone chop some vegetables before we all end up sitting on the floor, surrounded by debris and paint chips, talking about design ideas like this is a reality show audition and not a crime scene.
Strangely, even though this isn’t my thing at all, it helps me slowly stop feeling so haunted. We’re planning a future, the sun sinks behind the ridge, and the house is quiet.
My chest loosens as I drink it all in, realizing that the worst really is behind us. We map out a dozen possible new layouts, argue about cabinet handles, and decide the kitchen should have warm wood instead of white because Dillon will destroy the white cabinets in a week.
And as we imagine something better than the husk around us, I feel the sense of power returning to me. Real power, not the kind that came out of me in a burst of adrenaline and violence three nights ago.
After dinner, we go up to Dillon’s bedroom, which somehow made it through without a single bullet hole or even a drop of blood. Monitors glow on his walls, still running like nothing has ever changed.
There are sports broadcasts, news networks, and even a collage of security feeds on one screen. I glance at it, but then Dillon tackles Roxie onto his California king bed, and she laughs, swatting at his shoulders when he tickles her ribs.
Boone groans as he watches them, but it isn’t long before he heaves his massive frame onto the mattress with them, laughing when he joins the fray. I keep my gaze on the security feeds for one more moment, then deliberately turn my back on them and pull my shirt off over my head.
The house is wrecked, but we aren’t. And tomorrow, we begin rebuilding, not just the place where we live, but also the lives we’ve always wanted.
Together.
33
DILLON
I’ve never been so grateful for the smell of fresh paint and the absence of noisy power tools in my entire goddamn life. It’s been a few weeks since the attack, but finally, for the first time since those assholes burst in here, the house doesn’t feel like a crime scene or a demolition site anymore.
It feels like home. I love it.
All the renovations come out great. The midnight-blue accent wall is a little dramatic, but if Roxie wants “tasteful vampire chic,” who am I to argue?
Chance pretends to be grumpy about it, but I catch him staring at it this morning like a man appreciating fine art. Boone just shrugs and says, “It’s a wall,” which, well, it absolutely is.
But today isn’t about walls, or paint, or new doors, or windows, or even the fact that the house is blessedly quiet after weeks of power tools buzzing nonstop.
Today is about Christmas, and my master plan, which nobody knows about yet because I am, in fact, capable of keeping one secret at a time.
Our living room looks like Santa’s workshop had a baby with a catalog photo shoot. A massive fire crackles in the hearth, and holiday music plays softly in the background, with decorations on every available surface and hanging from every light fixture.
I wrapped garland around the banisters, and Roxie and I made a wreath by hand for our front door. A fifteen-foot tree we hunted down together stands in one corner. It might be overkill, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.
Besides, I want what I plan to hang on the tree to be at least a little hidden. As large as it is, glittering with ornaments and twinkle lights, there’s no way she’ll accidentally see what I concealed between the branches. I glance at it anyway, my gaze catching on a small black corner that confirms it’s still exactly where I put it.
Meanwhile, my brothers in chaos are in rare form. Lighthearted and relaxed, having fun instead of competing over who can be the most serious. Boone is in the kitchen finishing lunch. Chance wraps the last of the gifts we’re donating with the precision of a military engineer, bantering back and forth with Boone as they work.
Roxie is curled on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate, watching us with that soft look she gets sometimes that makes my chest hurt in a stupidly fond way. As I look between them, I decide that this is perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.
When I glance back at the tree, convinced they’ll be on board with my plan, Boone notices me staring into it like it’s about to speak to me. He comes out of the kitchen and walks over to me.
“What are you looking for,” he asks, “a naughty elf to blame your antics on?”
“Nah. I take responsibility for my own antics.”
Chance snorts. “That means he’s up to something.”
