And I look at Jude, holding Maisie’s rabbit, standing like a guard.
I didn’t just escape. I landed. And I built a life.
“Let’s go home,” I say, the knot in my chest finally loosening. “I want to go home.”
“Yeah,” Jude says, draping an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go home.”
The threat is lifted. The monster is in a cage.
I’m safe.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Amber
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
I stretch under the sheets,my hand instinctively going to the mound of my stomach. I’m six months along. I don’t just look pregnant; Iampregnant.
My center of gravity has shifted, my skin is stretched tight and shiny, and my belly button is long gone.
I lie there for a moment, listening to the warehouse.
It’s quiet. No sirens. No distant hum of traffic. Just the deep, rhythmic breathing of the three men I share this bed with.
Knox is on his back, one arm thrown over his head. Fallon is sprawled starfish-style, taking up three-quarters of the mattress. Eli is curled around my back, his hand resting possessively on the bump.
The guest room still smells faintly of Stella’s expensive French perfume, but with her gone, the warehouse feels truly settled.
I know she’ll be back tomorrow, but I miss her already.
My clothes are hanging in the closet next to Knox’s suits. My toiletries are in the bathroom. The spare room that used to be storage is now painted a soft, sage green, waiting for a crib.
The fear of Luke is a distant memory. He’s in a cage six hours away, and the shadow he cast over this town has been washed away by sunlight and the mundane miracle of growing a human being.
I need to pee. Again.
I wiggle out from between Eli and Fallon, groaning as my joints pop. I pad to the bathroom, and when I come back, the smell of something... strange hits me.
I didn’t take that long to pee, did I?
I walk into the kitchen area, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
Knox is standing at the island, shirtless, wearing an apron that says “Kiss the Cook.” In front of him is a bowl.
“Morning,” he rumbles, his accent thicker in the morning. “You’re up early. The bean is kicking?”
“He’s dancing,” I say, walking over to see what he’s doing. “Knox... what is that?”
In the bowl is a stack of pickles. Doused in chocolate milk.
“It’s for you,” he says, dipping a pickle into the milk and holding it out to me. “You said you wanted salt and sugar. This is both.”
I stare at it. “That is disgusting.”
“Eat,” he commands gently, tapping the pickle against my lip. “It has calcium. And protein. And you’re growing a human.”
I take a bite. The crunch of the pickle mixes with the creaminess of the milk. It’s weirdly, undeniably good. I moan, taking the bowl from him and eating another.
