Page 99 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

The room quiets for a beat, everyone turning toward me. I raise my glass higher, catching Dal’s eye. “And to family watchin’ out for each other.”

For tonight, we eat, we drink, and we celebrate the small victories.

Chapter Thirty Eight

If Meat Had Ears

— Colt —

“Alright, now. You guys just chill until we can get the pit dug.” I grin at the three slabs of pork ribs. They stay pretty quiet as I close the cooler lid, but hey, I still crack myself up. If meat had ears, they’d be rolling their eyes.

I almost never have a reason to go into Warren’s. We make do just fine at the Piggly Wiggly, where I know the cashier by name and she pretends not to notice when I grab a second pack of gum at checkout.

Butcher shops? They’re for people with a lot more zeros in their bank account. But Tomas called this order in special, and me, being the exemplary almost-brother-in-law that I am, will keep these steaks, ribs, and wings stashed until the big night.

The party’s gonna be perfect. Sunday deserves that. Even though I’m still wrapping my head around the whole ‘eternally bonded mate group’ thing, it’s clear as day how much Tomas loves her. Hell, the man asked Dad and me for her hand like it was the 1980s or somethin’.

Dad didn’t put up much of a fight. Just gave Tomas that soul-squinting look of his—which is kind of Dad’s thing—and asked him some tough questions about what being with Sunday really means. Tomas didn’t flinch. Answered every single one, and not a word of it rang false.

Not that I expected him to lie. I’d know if he did. It’s not like I can read minds—thank God—but I can feel when someone’strying to sell me a line of bull. It’s like a little buzz at the back of my brain, a warning light flipping on.

Tomas? He’s solid.

I like Ben too. And Xavier? Xavier scares me more than all the rest of them combined. Don’t ask me why. If I say psycho-vibe—but in a good way—would that be offensive? Well, not in my head, it ain’t.

And Grayson? Well, that’s a bit more complicated, considering I’m pretty sure I’m in love with his chyld.

I let out a low sigh and run a hand through my hair. I’ve been Vivien’s blood source for months now. She says it’s because I’m “convenient.” I try not to think too hard about that word, but it ain’t exactly flattering. I don’t mind feeding her—not at all—but sometimes I wonder if that’s all I am. Just a convenient source.

If she felt anything for me, wouldn’t she say something? Hell, I don’t even know if she likes me half the time. The other half, I’m pretty sure she hates me. But then there are these moments—quick, fleeting—where she looks at me like I’m something more. Like she actually sees me. But it’s probably just the blood talking.

I grip the cooler handle tighter and shake the thought out of my head. Tonight’s about Sunday. Not Vivien, not my feelings, not anything else. My sister deserves this, and I’ll be damned if I let my own mess distract me from making it perfect.

The bell over the shop door jingles as I step into the sticky afternoon heat, the cooler thumping against my leg. I’ve barely secured the lid in the truck bed when a voice drawls behind me.

“Well, well. Look who’s still breathin’.”

I whip around so fast I nearly trip over my own boots. “Holy shit, man. What are you doin’ topside?”

Silas leans against a shiny new Jeep like he owns the whole parking lot, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s big—always bigger than I remember—withdreadlocks spilling over his shoulders, tattoos crawling up his forearms, and piercings catching the sunlight. He looks exactly like the kind of guy your momma warns you about.

Lucky for him—I ain’t that bright.

“Just passing through,” he says, his voice smooth as bourbon over ice.

The buzz hits me like a slap. He’s lying.

I narrow my eyes. “Yeah, and I’m the King of England.”

His smirk widens into a grin. He shakes his head. “What gave it away?”

“Everything about you, man. You’ve got that ‘I’m up to somethin’ face.” I lean against the truck bed, arms crossed. “So, what is it? And don’t gimme that ‘just passing through’ bullshit.”

Silas chuckles, low and rough, and pushes off his Jeep. He steps closer, boots crunching against the gravel. Even though I know him—like him, even—something about him always makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Maybe I just missed you, Colton.” He’s still grinning, but his dark eyes stay locked on mine, searching.

Another lie. A weak one, like he’s testing how far he can push before I bite.

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