Iris doesn’t smile, but her eyes soften, which is about as emotional as she gets. “Willow loves you. That’s all we need to know.”
Lucky blinks, trying to clear the emotion from his eyes.
Opal beams like it’s Christmas morning. “Breathe easy, Sainty. You have us. Willow, me, Iris. Even Grandma. We’re like a three-for-one deal.”
Iris adds quietly, “That would be a four-for-one, Opal.”
“Right,” she says with a grin.
Lucky presses his lips together, and his eyes shine. He blinks hard, then looks at me—like I’m the anchor in all this chaos—and the look just about guts me.
I’ve seen him cocky, I’ve seen him feral, I’ve seen him take down a murderous man with a grin. But this? This is Lucky cracked open, raw and grateful and so damn unguarded it makes my heart ache.
And me? I’m the oldest daughter. The protector. The one who’s supposed to carry the weight. But right now, I feel my heart swelling so fast it’s stupid. Dangerous. Like it’s going to tear me apart through my ribs.
Because sometimes I forget it’s not just me against the world. It’s us.
Lucky. Me. My sisters. Even Grandma.
We’re a family. And I’ll bleed for every single one of them.
“Thank you,” Lucky says finally. He steps forward, hugging Iris first, and then Opal. Iris just pats him awkwardly on the back. Opal spills cereal down his shirt.
“I love you both,” I say as I step forward and hug my sisters as well. “We’ve got to get going. But this will all be over soon.”
“Love you, too,” Opal says as she awkwardly hugs me with her bowl of cereal between us. Thankfully, I stay clean of her sugar rush mess. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
I don’t really know what the hell she means by that, but I don’t ask.
“Keep my sister safe,” Iris says with a pointed look at Lucky.
“I will,” he promises.
We step back outside, and I can’t help but smile to myself.
“Ready?” Lucky asks.
It feels like something big just happened. Something weighted. But I can see it in Lucky’s eyes. He’s a little overwhelmed by it all. It’s been a decade since he could count on anyone. So, I don’t push it. I simply nod.
I back my truck out of the driveway, and in the rearview mirror, Lucky’s car slides right in behind me. He’s close enough that if I hit the brakes too hard, he’d probably kiss my bumper. And honestly? It’s comforting. The man’s not letting me out of his sight. Ever.
It’s sweet. It’s suffocating. It’s… terrifyingly good.
The road hums under my tires, Vegas closing in in all its glory, and I can’t stop thinking about the chaos I left unopened on my phone.
Thousands of notifications. Comments stacked like a digital avalanche. Every post I’ve made in the last year is suddenly crawling with strangers dissecting me, my readings, my eyeliner, my rings, the way my hand looked tangled in Lucky’s shirt in that photo.
Saint Shade’s girlfriend? Saint Shade’s wife?
Who is she?
Did she give us any clues about who he is?
And then the really unhinged ones—little TikToks where people slow-mo zoom on the blond hair fully on display, or the ones that freeze-frame his profile like they’re doing forensic work.
Look at the jawline!
He looks like an Alex. Do you think he’s an Alex?
