Page 50 of Miles

“Hey, brother!”

Cash and Miles embraced as only men could: patting each other on the back with their clasped hands between them.

Even dragons made use of the bro hug.

“I thought you’d never get back!”

“Sometimes, it felt like we never would.” Miles turned to me. “This is Savannah.”

“Thank God,” Cash grinned. “I thought this one would never find a woman who could stand him.”

“Please. I just got her here. Don’t drive her away yet.” Even so, I laughed. It was nice, seeing Miles unwind that way and joke with his brother. I could feel myself relaxing little by little, letting this crazy, unlikely family pull me in.

“And you’re Carissa,” I said. “This lab is incredible.”

“Thank you. I wish I could take credit for all of it, but somebody was generous enough to get it started for me.”

They smiled at each other, and it was clear how in love they were.

“Your antidote worked a treat,” Miles congratulated her. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I did what I could.” She blushed, ducking her head, clearly not used to such praise.

I liked her immediately, the way I liked the others.

Everyone brought something to the family—except for me. I wondered what I could do. I wasn’t as spectacular as she was, or as smart as Ciera. I wasn’t a healer, like Alina. I wasn’t a leader, like Jasmine. I didn’t have Martina’s strength or her skills. I was just me.

Miles cleared his throat. “This is as good a segue as any.”

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

“I’ll show you.” He took me by the hand and led me from the lab, further down the tunnel.

“I’ll bet you’d like to show me something,” I giggled.

“I would—but there’s something else, first.” He opened a door at random, just enough to stick his head through and look around. “Great. It’s all set.”

“What’s all set? Our room?”

“Not our room.” He grinned over his shoulder. “Your room.”

“Mine?”

He opened the door further, flipping a light switch before stepping aside. I didn’t know what to look at first—the beautiful desk, the high-backed leather chair, the laptop sitting open.

Waiting for me.

“What’s this?” I whispered, tiptoeing into the room. It was beautiful. A TV, a sofa, a wall of books. There was even a small refrigerator and coffee maker in one corner.

“A room for you—or, rather, an office,” he explained. “I talked to Pierce about it before we left St. Lucia. You can decorate it any way you want. But I thought this would be a good start.”

My mouth fell open. “An office? For me?”

“For you. I mean, you’re a writer. Writers write. They need their space and their quiet. Don’t they?”

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable at my confusion.

“Is this all wrong?”

I couldn’t believe him.

Nobody had ever called me a writer before—nobody who wasn’t making fun or patronizing me. He took me seriously.

He made me believe I could do anything I dreamed of.

“Wrong?” I laughed, falling into his arms. “Nothing was ever more right.”

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