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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.