Page 47 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

I lead them down the hallway, pausing at The Thistle and Thorn Room. Turning the handle, I let the door swing open with a soft creak. Silver and grey-green hues dominate, everything about it wintery and sharp. This might work for Valentine or Ben, I muse. Of course, everyone is welcome to redecorate—whether that means flannel shirts or a collection of taxidermied ravens.I don’t pretend to know what Val keeps in her ridiculously heavy suitcases.

Next is The North Star Retreat, just a few steps down on the left. Deep blues and rich browns greet us, the rough-hewn timber furniture lending it a feeling of stability, like a place to return to after the longest of nights. Though I’d never admit it aloud, it’s perfect for Tomas.

Just as I begin to despair over the lack of a room Vivien would deign to inhabit—even temporarily—The Rose Garden Suite appears. It’s strewn with a truly egregious collection of cabbage roses and artfully distressed oversized furniture. Still, there’s a hint of vintage romance that might make it tolerable. Vivien’s tastes lean toward extravagance, but maybe she’ll find something here that doesn’t entirely disappoint.

The thought causes my lips to twitch. Sunday raises an eyebrow, curiosity sparkling there. “What’s that look for?” she asks, her voice playful.

“Just thinking about how much money I’m going to spend redecorating these rooms.” Slipping an arm around her waist, I draw her closer. Her amusement filters through to me, her acceptance like a balm to my restless thoughts.

“Why? There’s nothing wrong with them. Just a few mattresses and linens to replace.” She glances around the suiteand then back to me, her brow lifting. “I mean, I think this one looks a little like Vivien, don’t you?”

She stops suddenly, as if struck by a thought. Because I’m always stalking our bond, I feel the shift—the sudden urgency, followed by an explosion of worry.

“But what are we going to do about all these windows?” Her eyes dart around the room, landing on the glass as if it’s suddenly the enemy. “This house leaks light like a sieve.”

“Ah, well, tonight I’ll find a dark spot and make do.” My thumb traces a line along her waist, my grip tightening slightly as I savor the feel of her. “But tomorrow, an extremely expensive team of glaziers will be driving down from Nashville to replace all the windows on this floor with UV-proof glass.”

“But tomorrow is Sunday.”

“So it is.”

“This is the South, darlin’. You don’t ask tradespeople to work on Sundays.”

“Then find out what church they attend and make a donation if it brings you some peace.”

“I’m serious.” Her voice drops a notch, her gaze narrowing in that way that means she’s about to dig her heels in.

I turn to face her fully, affection flooding the bond. “I know you are, Lover. And I promise, it’s handled.”

She releases a sigh, the corners of her lips twitching as if debating whether to relent. Finally, she shakes her head.

“You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly charming?” I suggest, arching an eyebrow.

“Impossibly infuriating,” she counters, but there’s no bite to it. She leans into me, her forehead resting against my shoulder for a moment before looking up, her expression softening.

Footsteps approach, and Ben appears at the top of the stairs. His eyes flick between us, lingering briefly where my hand restson Sunday’s waist. He folds his arms in front of him, his gaze cool but not hostile.

“Am I interrupting?” The faint edge to his voice is almost hidden by a smile.Almost.

“Not at all, Baby,” Sunday says, slipping free and moving toward him. “We were just talking about Grayson’s grand plan to have window installers here tomorrow.On a Sunday.”

A snort comes from behind us, and I don’t need to turn to know it’s my Little Cat. They drift closer, lips curling into a smirk. “Grayson’s gonna get some poor Nashville glassworkers excommunicated. Very on-brand for him, honestly.”

“On a Sunday?” Ben echoes, enjoying piling on. “You think that’s gonna fly around here? I guess we’ll see how deep your wallet goes.”

He shoots me a look—one that says he’s reserving judgment—before his attention shifts back to Sunday. His shoulders ease, and he tilts his head, his voice gentler now. “You alright, Sunshine?”

She nods. I catch the way he folds her in, the way she leans into his solidity, and my monster shifts restlessly—half irritation, half inexplicable desire.

As a group, we make our way down the hall, passing a grand staircase that sweeps down gracefully to the front parlor below. The polished banister catches the gleam of a thousand crystals from the chandelier overhead, scattering light like tiny stars. Sunday’s eyes light up at the sight, and before I can say anything, she’s halfway down the stairs. One hand lifts the imaginary skirts of a grand gown, the other resting delicately on her collarbone.

“All right, Scarlett, let’s keep moving.”

She glances back, eyes dancing with mischief. “But Grayson, don’t you want to be my chaperone? Keep all these scoundrelsaway from my virtue?” She bites her plump bottom lip, sending a bolt of desire rolling through me.

“Frankly, my dear… I think your virtue’s well beyond saving at this point,” I tease. “Now, if you’d be so kind, we have the master suite still waiting, and I’ve had my fill of theatrics for one night.”

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