Page 96 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

The severed head of Texas stares back, lifeless eyes framed by a jaunty pink bow.

Ben’s hand lands on the back of my neck, his fingers pressing firmly. His voice is a low murmur, words meant to soothe. But they’re lost under the rush of blood in my ears.

He leans in, his arm brushing mine as he reaches into the box. Carefully, he lifts the head, encased in a thick plastic bag.

Something green catches my eye beneath the pink tissue paper. I blink, my mind stumbling to process it.

Ben pulls out a ball of yarn—bright green, almost garish. A thick piece of card-stock dangles from it. His brow furrows.

“What the hell is this?” he mutters.

Tomas takes the card, his eyes narrowing slightly as he reads it. A beat passes, then he looks up, his expression unreadable.

“Rurik sent gifts.” He holds up the ball of yarn, the bright green almost obscene in the morning light. “The head—for Sunday.” His lips twist into something between a smirk and a grimace “And this is, apparently, for you.”

He hands me the yarn. It’s ridiculous—a teasing insult. My jaguar hesitates, claws still half-sheathed, but I squeeze the ball anyway, reluctantly enjoying the squishy give of it.

Then, there’s a moment—a heartbeat of disbelief—as we both stare at it. My boogeyman, laid low, reduced to nothing more than a grisly token in a box.

AndRurik.

I should hate him for this—for inserting himself deeper into our world, for taking every chance to endear himself to Sunday. But here’s the thing—my jaguar doesn’t hate it.Not at all.

The ghosts still linger, shadows curling at the edges of my mind. But beneath them, there’s a small, bright flicker of something new—a spark of victory. A sense that, for once, we’re not just surviving.

Maybe we’re starting to win.

Back on the porch, Sunday peeks into the box, her eyes widening before she snaps the lid shut again. Her face pales, her gaze drifting upward, as if seeking strength—or maybe an explanation—in the wide expanse of the sky.

A long, quiet beat stretches between us. She exhales slowly, a thread of humor cutting through the tension.

“You know… some people just send flowers.”

My grin spreads, unhurried and unapologetic. I take the box from her hands, the weight of it light now, almost laughable.

“Well,” I say, eyes gleaming, “some people are boring.”

Chapter Thirty Seven

Sumi-Zumi

— Sunday —

Our old Victorian lady feels alive tonight. There’s a buzz in the air—a current that electrifies every corner. The laughter starts in the kitchen, spreads to the front room, and spills out onto the wrap-around porch, where early evening shadows stretch long across the yard.

Everyone’s gathered: shifters, vampires, assorted Prescott weirdos, and Sue, who’s knocking it out of the park as our token human.

Tomas has an arm wrapped around me, and I let myself lean into him. It’s been a hell of a week, but tonight, we’re celebrating.

Rurik’s twisted little present from this morning—the severed head of the King of Texas—has sent ripples through our little corner of the world. Louisiana dropped us like an angry hornet’s nest, texting Tomas that we are no longer expectedorwelcome at the palace. Turns out Rurik can be useful after all.

He’s growing on me, I admit it. And hey, I do love presents. I shake my head enjoying the way my braids bounce against my shoulders, tied up with bright green bows.

Colton and Vivien are home, Texas is dead, and every single one of my favorite foods is sitting on my beautiful new dining room table.Boy, howdy, we’re livin’ in high cotton now.

Sue sidles up next to us, hands busy unwrapping a massive platter of fried chicken. She squints at my perfectly lovelycenterpiece, one eyebrow arching like she’s about to say something profound.

Now, I’ll have you know that I do not have the head of the King of Texas in the center of my table with an apple shoved in his mouth. It was only momentarily under consideration.

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