Celeste chokes on air and then loses it completely, the sound turning into a high, helpless peal that makes her shoulders bounce. She claps a hand over her mouth and leans forward, eyes bright and wet with laughter. “He did not,” she gasps between breaths. “Please tell me you let him get his studded jacket.”
“I didn’t, and when I told him no, he threw a fit and knocked it on the ground,” I deadpan, and the absurdity of defending my distaste in feline fashion is exactly the kind of thing that makes both of us dissolve. We look over at Sir Sassafras at the same time.
He’s now perched on the fireplace mantle like it’s his throne, cape draped perfectly, crown tilted at a rakish angle, and the sight of him is absurd, regal, and so utterly unconcerned with the chaos he’s caused, it pushes us over the edge. We both start laughing again, the sound spilling out of us until it’s almost painful, until Celeste’s shoulders shake and she starts to wheeze, clutching at her ribs as if the laughter might actually split her in two.
Sir Sassafras blinks down at us with the bored disdain of a monarch who has tolerated enough peasantry for one evening.
Celeste wheezes harder.
And just like that, the night settles around us, ridiculous, warm, and exactly what it needed to be.
35
Lucian
My fingers work the last stubborn tangles from my hair, and my shirt is still clinging to damp skin from the shower. I’m halfway down the stairs when I notice the house is too quiet. I don’t hear the hum from the TV, or clatter from the kitchen where Celeste usually is.
“LUCIAN!”
The scream of my name on her mouth spears terror right through my chest. The world narrows to a bright, thin line, and my stomach drops so hard I forget the remaining steps. Fuck the stairs. I fling myself over the railing, the world a blur of wood and light, my foot finds the floor in a hard thud, and thankfully, I have the wherewithal to keep my prosthetic from taking any of the impact. My heart pounds in my ears, as every thought collapses into one blunt order: protect her.
I hit the foyer, and the front door gapes open ahead; the porch light casts a small halo in the dark. Night air slaps my face,and for a beat, the yard is a smear of shadow. Headlights cut off behind my SUV, a new black SUV idles where it shouldn’t be. The memory of her attack is a live wire under my skin, and I will not let anything like that happen again.
Then I see her, barreling toward me like she is trying to close the distance between fear and safety with her own two feet.
She doesn’t slow as she throws herself at me, and I step back to catch the momentum, planting my feet so we don’t topple over. Her fingers dig into my shirt, and I notice she’s shaking. For a beat, I’m keyed for violence, as I see the driver’s side door open and a man climbs out of the SUV.
The stranger is unremarkable at first glance. He’s average in every sense of the word. Average height, average build, jeans, and a plain jacket. He looks like a man your eyes would slide past in a grocery store aisle. The only thing that catches is his bright ginger hair, almost copper in the late light, impossible to miss against the muted street.
“Yo—sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender. “You here to show us the house?”
Before I can answer, the passenger door opens, and another person steps out. She’s small, with a waterfall of copper-bright hair similar to the man she’s with.
None of that matters. My pulse is still a live wire from Celeste’s scream.
“I’m not showing you our house,” I tell the newcomers. “You need to leave.”
He lifts his hands like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal. “Hey, man, we’re not here to start anything.” He jerks a thumb toward the woman. “My sister rented this house sight unseen. I told her it was a bad idea, but when do sisters ever listen to their big brothers? Amirite?”
The woman shoots him a look sharp enough to cut before turning back toward the SUV. She says something we can’t hearfrom the porch, but the way her brother rolls his eyes, I know it wasn’t directed at us.
She leans inside and grabs something. A moment later, she straightens, clutching a manila folder to her chest as she walks back toward us. Her steps are cautious but more annoyed than anything. I stay tense, but I move forward to meet her halfway.
The woman steps forward and hands me the folder. Her cold fingers brushing mine. “Here. This is my lease agreement, the confirmation email—everything.”
I take it from her, even though every instinct in me is still braced for the wrong kind of surprise. I flip it open with my thumb, my eyes scanning the front page. The houses on this street all look like they were stamped out of the same mold, so the photo doesn’t help. But the address does.
122 Willow Way.
The number lands like a small, ridiculous relief. I tap it with my finger; touching something concrete feels safer than trusting my head. “Our place is 112, you’re looking for 122. You’re a few houses down.”
She groans, throwing her head back like she’s appealing to the sky for mercy. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sean. You transposed the numbers. Classic Sean for you. He likes to blame anything he can on his little sister. That’s part of the reason I am getting away from that madhouse.” She mutters something that sounds like a prayer for patience, then sighs. “Guess that explains why you two look ready to fight us off with pitchforks.”
Her brother rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Yeah, sorry for barging in. We’ll move along before the big guy decides to snap us in half. My bad about the address. Let’s go, Daphne.”
I don’t answer. Saying anything feels unnecessary; my jaw ticks instead, a small, involuntary warning that’s apparently persuasive enough. Part of me wants to walk them down thestreet myself, make sure they actually get to their rental, but I don’t volunteer.
Daphne gives a small, sheepish wave as she climbs back into the SUV. “No hard feelings, huh?”
