Page 94 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

There’s a buzz of it under my skin, a low thrum of maybe things are finally shifting in the right direction.Crazy, right?Because so much can still go wrong. But a hell of a lot had to go right to get me here, too.

I’m pretty much off the venom. Bonded to Grayson, Sunday, and if the stars align, Ben soon enough. The Prescotts are a big, loud, ridiculous bunch, and I’ve somehow slipped right in. Like I truly belong. Like I’ve found family, a purpose—maybe it’s a peek at the end of all the bad times.

Ben stacks the latest deliveries, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt in a way that keeps my attention lingering just a little too long. My mind wanders to the image of him chopping wood for us later—shirt off, sweat glistening. The sudden, absurd need to find a tiny dangling axe earring nearly derails me, but I shake it off and try to stay focused on the task at hand.

Sunday and I are knee-deep in the avalanche of boxes already piled on the porch. Tomas wasn’t kidding when he said we’d be getting a few packages today. It looks like every merchant on the internet decided to treat overnight delivery as a personal challenge.

I lean back, breathing in the crisp morning air, watching Sunday in full-on Cinderella mode. Each time she opens a new box or padded envelope, she lets out this adorable little gasp, covering her mouth like she can’t quite believe Anthropologie just threw up on our porch.

It’s ridiculous, and I can’t help but grin.

She’s glowing over piles of decorative throw blankets and tiny, useless vases—the kind that might somehow make our house look like adults who have their lives together live here.

But my jaguar, feeling just a little overlooked, decides it’s time to join the party.

It’s not just impatience—it’s the way her focus is completely absorbed by these new treasures instead of us. My jaguar shifts restlessly, his bratty streak surfacing like an itch I can’t scratch.

A single claw slides from the tip of my finger.

With an exaggerated flourish, I slice open one of the boxes, smug satisfaction curling in my chest as I hope to pull just a fraction of her attention back our way.

Sunday glances over, one brow arching with that perfect mix of curiosity and warning.

She doesn’t tell me to stop.

Not yet.

I get a little too absorbed in the joy of ripping up paper and cardboard. Packing tape curls in neat strips under my claw, and Styrofoam peanuts scatter like confetti. It’s oddly satisfying, this chaotic destruction, and I’m feeling pretty damn pleased with myself as I shred through the remaining pile of boxes.

Sunday’s attention bounces between her new treasures and my dramatic claw work, and I revel in the chaos, smugly ignoring Ben wandering behind us with a garbage bag like the responsible adult he pretends to be.

The next box gives way easily, my jaguar urging me to make an even bigger show of it. I swipe with dramatic flair, layers tearing with satisfying violence.

And then it happens—a sound that’s not quite right. A soft, whispery rip.

My jaguar stills, the thrill ebbing like a tide as realization sinks in.

Sunday frowns, her brow furrowing. I glance down at the unraveling remains of what was once a very expensive-looking Pottery Barn pillow. Tomas insisted on these pillows because “the house should have some nice touches.” And now someone has disemboweled one.

“Oops.”

I try shoving the stuffing back in, but it’s hopeless—the pillow’s guts spill out in a mocking cloud of white fluff.

“You’re paying for that one,” Sunday says, her tone flat but her lips twitching at the edges.

I shrug, retracting my claw with a twinge of discomfort. “Worth it,” I reply, flashing her my best grin.

Ben turns, garbage bag in hand, and gives me that look.

“No more claws near the merchandise,” he says, his voice half-annoyed, half-amused.

My jaguar grumbles— I let it fade, rolling my eyes. “Fine, fine.”

I open my mouth to crack another very funny joke when the sense of ease vanishes. The shift is subtle—a shadow slipping beneath the surface of my senses. Something’s off. Tension coils under my skin, sharp and cold, cutting through the morning’s warmth.

My eyes narrow as I scan the mess.

That’s when I see it.

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