Even though I’m sore and bruised and still shaking inside, I’m safe.
If any harm tries to come through that door, Sebastian will burn the world down.
I absently pet Mr. Pickles.
And so will my guard cat.
And my guard cat’s nemesis, Drew.
Mr. Pickles purrs like a weapon, probably plotting Drew’s death.
Drew is downstairs, probably Googling “how to cope after shooting someone” and wondering if Mr. Pickles peed on his bed again.
For the first time in a long time, life feels almost perfect.
I close my eyes and fall asleep with Sebastian’s hand locked around mine like a vow.
63
SEBASTIAN
I’m watching Ivy sleep, her breathing even, cheeks slightly flushed. Mr. Pickles is stationed on her chest like a furry landmine, daring the universe to try to hurt her again. Drew is downstairs, the sounds of the TV filtering upstairs.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, a rush of guilt flowing through me when I see the name. The person I should’ve called hours ago. Ivy’s dad.
My jaw tightens. I didn’t forget because I don’t care. I forgot because of the chaos—his daughter was injured, my brother was shaking, and a gunshot still rang in my ears.
It doesn’t feel like a good excuse, but it’s the truth.
With one final glance at her sleeping face, I release Ivy’s hand and stand. I quietly exit the bedroom, closing the door behind me. Then I head downstairs and past Drew, who gives me a curious glance as I step onto the back deck.
The fresh air gives me a second to get my head together.
I dial his number. He answers on the first ring. “Sebastian.” No hello. No warmth. Just restraint stretched thin.
“She’s safe,” I say immediately. “She’s home. Sleeping.”
Silence.
“Why am I just hearing this now?”
Because I failed one promise today.
“I should’ve called sooner,” I say. “Things moved fast. She was taken to the hospital. There were statements. I?—”
“What the hell happened?” Before I can say a word, he snaps, “You were supposed to call me.”
“Yes,” I say, because anything else would be cowardice. “I was. Everything that happened… it was a bit distracting.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“You’re going to tell me all about it when I get there,” he snaps. “Address.”
It’s a demand. He’s entitled to it. I screwed up.
I give it to him.
The call ends without a goodbye.
