Page 829 of End Game

His mouth brushes my hair.

My left hand is resting against his chest, and the sapphire catches a stripe of morning light coming through the kitchen window.

The first time I married Griffin, I didn't want a ring because I didn't want either of us pretending our marriage was something it wasn't.

I didn't want a ceremony because there was nothing to celebrate yet.

We were solving a problem.

I would still make that choice.

So would he.

This time, there is no problem to solve.

I know exactly what I'm choosing.

And, maybe more importantly, I know choosing Griffin doesn't require me to unchoose anyone else.

That feels worth celebrating.

Chapter fifty-eight

Critical Nineteen

Micah

I still have the original sketch.

That probably shouldn’t surprise me. I keep old work all the time—finished designs, abandoned designs, flashes I liked enough not to throw away. There are folders in the back of my studio full of things that probably haven’t seen daylight in years.

But this one isn’t filed with those.

It’s tucked inside the back cover of one of my personal sketchbooks, the paper softened slightly at the corners from being handled more than once. A simple black-line d20 with nineteen facing up. There are still faint pencil marks around the edges where I adjusted the proportions before transferring it to Cami’s skin.

I’m staring at it longer than I need to when Dex speaks behind me.

“You gonna frame it or tattoo us?”

I don’t turn around. “Considering framing it and sending you home.”

“Rude. This is supposed to be a meaningful bonding experience.”

“This was your idea.”

“Technically, this was all our idea.”

That makes me look over my shoulder.

Dex is already stretched across my tattoo table like he’s about to undergo major surgery instead of getting a tattoo smaller than the palm of my hand. Ronan sits in the chair near the wall reading the aftercare sheet I handed him, even though I’m reasonably certain he researched tattoo healing for six hours before agreeing to this. Griffin stands beside him with his arms crossed, looking like he may be reconsidering every decision that brought him here.

Which is impressive, considering this is the guy who runs into burning buildings for a living.

I hold up the sketch.

All three of them quiet, and the sudden absence of Dex’s running commentary makes something uncomfortable pull beneath my ribs.

“That’s hers?” Griffin asks.