Page 97 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

But we couldn’t find a platter big enough. And, well, there are youngins running around who probably don’t need that image burned into their developing minds.

Instead of a severed head centerpiece, we have Mishka’s prize from his attic expedition—a taxidermied ‘possum, frozen mid-hiss, teeth bared in perpetual fury. Gemma adorned him with a lovely little lei, and honestly, I think he’s perfect. I’m planning on making him a regular dinner guest.

The food is spread out on the oversized trestle table—Southern comfort from start to finish. Cornbread, mac ‘n’ cheese, collard greens, tea so sweet it’ll make your teeth ache, and now, enough fried chicken to feed an army. I fill up a plate and find a spot to kick my feet up.

Shadow is in their element, bouncing between groups, making sure everyone’s plate is piled high. They’re a whirlwind of movement—all quick smiles and teasing touches—and watching them with Ben makes something inside me unclench, a worry I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto.

It’s hard to shake the memory of the bruised and battered shifter who suffered through withdrawal, convinced they deserved every ounce of pain they’d been handed. I’ve spent so long waiting for the cracks to show that seeing them like this—whole and happy—feels like standing in a warm rain I didn’t know I needed.

Grayson lounges in the armchair near the fireplace, a tumbler of Daddy’s good Scotch in his hand, looking more relaxed than maybe I’ve ever seen him. He lifts the glass in my direction—a silent toast—and I nod back.

For a moment, it’s just us. The noise of the room fades into the background. He doesn’t say a word—doesn’t need to. The weight of everything we’ve been through rests in the curve of his lips as he smiles, soft and a little crooked.

Our bond hums between us, feeding me a steady stream of Grayson-input that I can’t get enough of. Vampires are usually locked up tighter than a bank vault, so having this backstage pass to his emotions feels like I’ve hit the jackpot. I’m obsessed, it’s like reality TV but trashier.

Across the room, Vivien shoots me a look that could curdle milk. Yeah, I’m still not her favorite, but I’m wearing her down. Turns out, her icy heart is no match for a steady stream of designer handbags and skincare that costs more than my first car. Do vampires even need night cream?

A knock at the kitchen door cuts through the chatter, and the room falls into a curious hush. Daddy, who’s been leaning against the wall near Gray, pushes off with a start and announces, “Well, they came to the back door, so they gotta be friendlies.”

Tomas does not look entirely sold on Daddy’s advanced security logic and trails him into the kitchen, shoulders tense like he’s expecting trouble.

A moment later, I catch the low rumble of my Uncle Dalford’s voice—not loud, but clear enough to carry through the house—followed by the scrabble of paws on wood floors. Nails skidding, as something tries to take a corner too fast.

What in the world is in my kitchen?

My gaze lands on Mishka, who’s abandoned his game of checkers with Val to eye the swinging door with suspicion. All my shifters are accounted for.

I join the flow of curious faces and find Gemma and Lily already in the thick of it. The kitchen has devolved into the best kind of chaos—an excited puppy skidding across the floor, twosquealing five-year-olds, and adults standing around, trying not to laugh.

Daddy watches it all with a look that says he’s rethinking his every life choice. The puppy’s tail thwaps against the cabinets, oblivious to the tension. Daddy turns to Dal, raising an eyebrow.

“This is… a surprise. We’d been saying the girls could get a dog—eventually. I was thinking, maybe, in a year or two.”

Dal shrugs, nonchalant as ever. “Puppy’s not for the girls—it’s for my new nephew.”

Ben steps up behind Mishka, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. His voice drops to that reassuring tone he uses when things are big and new. “That’s Uncle Dal,” he explains quietly. “He’s special, like Sunday and Colton.”

Mishka nods, his gaze locked on the little Catahoula hound sprawled on its back, his pudgy belly being thoroughly scratched by Tomas. The pieces are falling into place. I see it in the way his shoulders stiffen, then slowly relax. He looks from the puppy to Dal, then back again. Finally, in a soft, almost disbelieving voice, he whispers, “Oh.”

The twins immediately whine in unison. “It’s not fair! Mishka can just be a dog. Why can’t we have a puppy?”

Daddy sighs, the long-suffering sound only a father of small children can master. “Alright, alright, let’s not panic. Maybe Mishka can… share a little?”

Tomas manages to calm the little black-and-gray-spotted pup, then holds out a hand for Mishka. There’s a moment of hesitation before Mishka plops down beside him.

“You know,” Tomas says softly, his voice low and steady, “shifters can have amazing bonds with their pets. But there’s a right way—and plenty of wrong ways—to do it.”

Mishka scoots closer, his small hand brushing the puppy’s scruff. He looks up at Tomas, eyes wide with curiosity, hanging onto every word.

“But first,” Tomas adds, “he needs a name…”

Mishka studies the puppy, tilting his head as though considering the question with the weight it deserves. Finally, he nods. “His name is Sumi. It means ink in Japanese.”

Tomas ruffles his hair, his smile warm and approving. “That’s an excellent name, buddy.”

I grin, crouching beside them. “I like that, Mishka. He does look like he has ink spilled all over his coat.”

A voice from behind me interrupts. Grayson steps closer, peering over my shoulder with mild amusement. “Well, then his name should beSumi-Zumi.” (Ink Spot)

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