Page 143 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

If Angela didn’t look a second away from death, her reaction to that show of care would be hilarious.

“Thank you,” River whispers, holding tighter.

Angela’s expression closes down. “Don’t.”

“Angela,” I say firmly.

Her eyes flick to mine.

“Thank you.”

A sound of disgust. “Sentimental fools.”

Then she loses her fight with consciousness and slumps back against the concrete.

River stays with her until she’s rolled out on a gurney. Then she turns into me, careful of my ribs this time around, and hugs me. “Underneath it all, she’s just a big softie, isn’t she?”

I hold her closer. “I’m starting to think she might be exactly that.”

A breath. “Good thing our family always has room for one more.”

“I’m not sure she’ll like that.”

River’s chin comes up. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have a choice in the matter.”

Laughter in my belly.

Love in my heart.

But I know she’s right.

Because no more walking through hell alone.

No more deciding love is safer from a distance.

No more letting the Lyons define what we’re allowed to keep?—

Even for those who think they’re the most unworthy.

Forty-Two

River, a month later

The first thing I unpack is a mixing bowl.

Not clothes.

Not books.

Not the expensive industrial mixer Thorn insisted on buying because he needs a constant supply of daisy-shaped sugar cookies.

Just a mixing bowl.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned through all of this, it’s that home isn’t where your stuff is.

It’s where your stomach is.

Grinning, I move through the penthouse, through the home Thorn and I are building. It’s cozy and beautiful and warm and doesn’t have a chair wedged beneath the front door, and most importantly, it’s ours.