Page 124 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

“Stop, stop,” he says, his voice steady but edged with concern. “I told you—it’s enchanted so it can’t be lost.”

Sunday freezes, looking up at him with a mix of curiosity and exasperation. “Wait. You mean I can’t ever take it off? I can’t wear this to the Piggly Wiggly or when I’m gardening. That’s silly.”

“It’s enchanted to disappear when you don’t need it,” Tomas explains patiently. “You just have to turn it off. Sam said it would be intuitive for you.”

Sunday narrows her eyes at the ring, her expression skeptical. Then, after a moment, she closes her eyes briefly—a long blink, really—and the engagement ring winks out of existence.

I lift her hand, my fingers brushing lightly over the bare space where the ring had sat. “This is very nice work,” I’m grudgingly impressed.

Tomas nods, his mouth quirking into a faint smile. “Sam said it’s a new branch of enchantment.”

“Useful,” I concede. My gaze drifts to Tomas, whose wolf is firmly fixed on her, unyielding in its devotion. I try to banish even the faintest sign of longing from my expression as my eyes linger on him. But he doesn’t meet my gaze. Not tonight. Tonight, everything he is—every thought, every breath—belongs to her.

***

As we step onto the porch, the hum of conversation and the scent of scotch and cigar smoke pull me out of my own head. The children have long since found their beds, leaving the adults to settle into the easy rhythm of a late evening.

Vivien drapes herself across my lap, a move that would usually earn her a withering look—if not for the bond thrumming quietly in the back of my mind. Through it, I feel Sunday’s emotions. First, a spark of annoyance at Vivien’s transparent attempt to provoke her, then the amusement that quickly overtakes it. Her humor is almost infectious. Almost.

Before long, Vivien flits away, landing on Colton like a moth drawn to light.

I’m left to watch her play games with her Prescott. The way she leans into him, the way he steadies her—it’s so perfectly choreographed, so utterly Vivien. I want to say, Yes, I remember this stage well. Still trying to convince yourself it’s just the blood—that you’ll grow bored soon enough? But I keep the words to myself.

Instead, I lean back, nursing the remnants of my scotch and observing these fascinating mortals. Colton, for instance, is excellent at vanishing. One moment, he’s leaning against the railing; the next, he’s gone, slipping into the shadows. His scent lingers briefly—sweet like his sister, but edged with something herbal and musky.

I catch it just as Ben and Tomas do, their heads snapping up in near-perfect unison as the smoke carries on the breeze. A knowing look passes between them, and Ben’s lips twitch into a grin. Tomas leaves Sunday with a lingering kiss before the two Alaskan shifters disappear behind the barn, followed a moment later by our jaguar.

Wade watches the whole thing with a raised brow and a wry smile. “Well,” he mutters, turning to Sunday, “I guess it’s nice that y’all have so much in common.”

Sunday snickers from her spot on the porch swing, shifting slightly to face him. “Excuse me, I’m sitting right here,” she quips, feigning offense.

Wade huffs a laugh but doesn’t respond immediately. His eyes narrow slightly—the way they do when he’s about to make a point. One I suspect I’ll find endlessly entertaining.

When he finally speaks, his drawl is thick with mock disappointment. “You know, Darlin’, they don’t call it dope for nothin’.”

Sunday’s laughter spills into the night, warm and genuine. “Hold on, Daddy,” she says, rising from the swing. “Let me refill your drink before you start pontificating. Another finger or two of scotch?”

Wade glares at her, but the humor in his eyes betrays him. “It’s not the same—”

“Oh, I’ll give you that,” Sunday interrupts, her smirk sharp. “Cannabis would be a hell of a lot kinder to your liver.”

I’ve been content to listen from the sidelines, nursing my drink, but I step in now, my voice an amused drawl. “You know, cannabis has been used for medicinal purposes for thousands of years. Even in my time, it was often a remedy—though the potency has changed… significantly.”

Wade’s gaze shifts to me, skeptical but curious. “So you’re saying y’all were just sittin’ around passin’ the peace pipe back in the old days, huh?”

I chuckle softly, shaking my head. “Not quite like that. But people have always sought comfort where they could find it—whether in wine, a pipe, or a strong drink.” I lift my glass slightly in his direction. “Sometimes, it’s just about making existence a little more tolerable.”

Wade mutters something under his breath about not needing existential philosophy to justify good scotch. I grin, settling back into my seat.

The moment lingers until a flicker of movement catches my eye. My head tilts slightly, narrowing my gaze as I sense something out of place. The breeze carries the faint rustle of leaves and… something else.

I set my glass down and vault over the railing in one smooth motion, landing lightly on the ground below. Behind me, Wade and Sunday fall silent, their drinks forgotten as I zip through puddles of moonlight and reach beneath a bush.

The culprit doesn’t put up much of a fight. Moments later, I’m back on the porch, depositing a squirming, indignant raccoon directly into Sunday’s lap.

She yelps, staring down at the creature in disbelief as it chitters angrily, waving its unnervingly human-like hands.

“He was trying to eavesdrop,” I say evenly, retrieving my glass and taking a sip as though nothing unusual has occurred.

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