Story wore a satin, bottle green cocktail dress that complemented her brown sugar skin, her curly hair glowing in the sun. My brother held their child as the steepled roof behind them seemed to jut miles into the clouds. Their daughter, Sonnet, donned the white christening gown that had been in our family for generations. Hand-sewn Chantilly lace cascaded all the way down to the steps, and a little bonnet covered her carob-colored hair.
Hand in hand, Grim and I headed up the steps.
“I hear you’re the newest Crowne to bring shame upon the family,” my sister, Abby, said as we arrived. Her red-brown eyes glimmered with humor.
“Is that off the rack?” I asked, egging her on.
Abigail smiled. “I got it on sale.”
“Ew,” I said. “You would.”
But we smiled.
Even her husband, Theo, looked good. I was so used to him with bloody knuckles and dark, angry eyes. With an air like he was a second away from snapping and breaking yournose. And yeah, he still had that air, but his red lips tilted up as he held their son in his arms.
His tie was a little askew over his white shirt, but it worked.
“For real, sister, I’m happy for you,” Abby said. “Mom is happy, too, in her own way.” Over Abigail’s shoulder, I found my mother standing with folded arms. She was dressed for a funeral, not a christening. A black, wide-brimmed hat on her head and black sunglasses.
“Maybe,” I said.
Shehadkept my secret.
“Ready?” Story asked, holding Sonnet out to me. Sonnet peered up at me with big doe eyes, a mix of Story’s mossy green and my brother’s deep Atlantic blue.
“How are you going to explain to her that her godmother is dead?” I asked, eyes still on Sonnet.
“You can explain it,” Gray said. “When you come to visit every month.”
The ceremony was short and quick. Afterward, I exchanged hugs with my family—well, everyone but Mom—and promised to visit soon. As Grim and I walked to the car, I glanced back at them, and something warm and surreal overcame me. Everyone got a happily ever after. Even me, in my own way.
On the drive back we didn’t talk much. Grim held my hand in his, stroking the bare skin. I was excited to get home. It was Tuesday night, and Raze always made tacos while Lock insisted on playing board games.
Zabby had since adopted me as her sister. She’d said she was so excited to have one, since she’d grown up with boys. She couldn’t wait to paint each other’s nails and gossip and watch rom-coms—things that sisters did.
I thought of my own sordid relationship with Abigail. Cutting each other’s hair, finding fresh skin to stab.
Yeah, I’d told her. Because thatwasthe kind of sister I was going to be.
When we got back to the compound, there was no smell of tacos, and we could hear yelling from the garage. Grim exchanged a look with me and gently pushed me behind him. As we rose up the steps, the shouting became clearer.
“Do you know who I am!” I stopped short at the voice. Because that was a woman’s voice, and it didn’t sound like Zabby.
Ignoring Grim’s obvious attempt to shield me, I ran past him and pushed through the door.
“Blaire?”I said, stunned.
Blaire was in the living room, tied to a chair, glaring up at Raze, who towered over her. Wraith sat on the couch, reading as always. Lock tried to defuse the situation, a hand on Raze’s shoulder.
“Gemma?” Blaire’s gaze found mine. “I thought you fucking died. I went to your funeral.”
“I know,” I said wryly. “I saw the selfies.”
“But you’ve, what, been here? Getting gangbanged by the Horsemen?”
“My Horseman doesn’t share,” I said. As if to emphasize, Grim appeared, wrapping a hand around my waist, tugging me closer.
Her mouth fell open. “YourHorseman?”
