Page 73 of The Unexpected

They press the third ring into my palm. It’s heavier than I expected. I close my fist around it, the edge biting into the flesh. The engraving here is just a date—today, the day after the world ended and began again.

“What should I do with this third one?” I whisper. “I’m going to wear Hunter’s on my left ring finger, and Lachlan’s on my right. But where does this one go?”

The men exchange a look, and then Lachlan growls. “In your pussy, sweetheart. We want you to have an internal reminder of us at all hours of the day. We’re not saying you have to wear it all the time, but just when you’re feeling naughty. Or when you want to feel our presence, and we’re not there.”

I gasp, cheeks going pink.

“Are you serious?”

Hunter nods, blue eyes flashing.

“And sweetheart, if you like it, we can get you a fourth ring too. To go here,” he rasps, tapping my anus with one big finger. “This part of you is just as sacred, but we thought it’d be going too far on the first pass. But you let us know, and we can get a fourth ring made that matches the other three. That way your ass will be filled with our possession too.”

I gasp because my men are so dirty, and yet I love it. I want to say something. I want to be witty or biting or sexy even, but my chin trembles, and I let out a laugh that’s more a sob, and I press the back of my wrist to my mouth before the tears can break. “You guys are insane,” I whisper.

Hunter leans in, kisses my wrist, then my forehead, then the corner of my mouth. Lachlan does the same, only he lingers longer, his lips grazing the space behind my ear where I’m always most vulnerable.

“We know,” Hunter says. “You’re the only girl worth losing everything for.”

The three of us lie there, cocooned in the warmth of the sheets, the velvet box at our feet. I turn the rings over in my fingers, feeling the grooves, the weight, the message. Outside, the city is either dead asleep or just beginning to wake, but in here, nothing moves except us.

Hunter traces a line down my spine, slow, with just his index finger, as if he’s memorizing the bumps of each vertebra for later. Lachlan presses his mouth to my temple, his breath slow and even.

In my head, I count the heartbeats. I count the candles, the bites, the kisses. I count the rings, one, two, three, and think: This is what love looks like when you stop pretending it isn’t dangerous.

I hold onto the moment, and to them, for as long as I can.

Because tomorrow, the world will burn again. And when it does, I want to remember exactly how this felt: the weight of the promise, cool and eternal, against my skin.

In the new version of my life, mornings begin with the sound of Hunter’s espresso machine, a beast that could probably run an elevator, and the sight of his kitchen island: a single slab of white marble longer than a mattress, surrounded by stools that cost more than most people’s monthly rent. The sun comes in at a slant through the wall of windows, illuminating every flaw in my complexion, every sleep-creased groove in my skin. On mornings like this one, I sit perched on a barstool in one of Hunter’s old T-shirts, hair barely tamed, and stare at my own reflection in the silver of the coffee press while I work down the short list of people in the world who actually matter.

It’s been three days since the ring thing. Three days since my world ended, or started, depending on who you ask. The bruises on my thighs have turned a little yellow, and the hickey on my throat is healing, but the feeling in my chest is still new and wondrous. I have the three rings stacked on the bar in front of me, each catching the light in a different way. I twist them, arrange them, try to make the patterns align. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.

The first call is to my father. Not to the landline because I know he’s already at work. I call his cell and let it ring, picturing the phone vibrating on the slab of granite that’s his office desk. He picks up on the sixth ring, his voice a low growl: “This is Moreland.” I imagine he’s staring at the water, not even blinking.

I’m out of small talk, so I go right in. “Hey Dad, it’s me. I need to see you. At Hunter’s. This morning if possible.”

A pause, then: “I’ll be there at ten.” Click.

The second call is to Andie. She answers on the first ring, because she’s a morning person, and because she still lives in a universe where people care about the punctuality of their phone etiquette. “Stella! Is everything okay?”

I let myself smile. “Everything is insane, but yes, we’re okay. We’re planning a…family thing. Next week. Are you free?”

Andie’s voice brightens, the way it always does when she thinks there’s a chance she’ll get to wear a pretty dress. “Of course! Is this a brunch? A party? Should I bring anything?”

“Just yourself. And maybe a cake. Something with lemon?”

She laughs, a round, living sound. “You got it. I can’t wait to see you.”

I hang up and start the coffee machine again, more out of habit than need. My hands are steady, but my brain is a fever swamp of what-if and how-will-this-look and what-if-we-ruin-everything.

At ten on the dot, the security camera in the front hall pings to life. I hear the code punched in, the mechanical whir of the locks disengaging. Then Thomas’s voice, echoing from the entryway: “Hunter?”

Hunter is already at the door, opening it wide. He looks like a devil’s idea of a country-club president—black jeans, black turtleneck, bare feet. He says nothing, just points toward the front sitting room.

The three of us assemble: me, cross-legged on the navy velvet sofa; Lachlan beside me, in his least priestly shirt (black, sleeves rolled to the elbows, nothing at the neck except a silver chain); Hunter in his usual pose—hands behind his back, looming in the window. Thomas takes the leather armchair by the fire, the only chair in the house that makes him look small.

For a long, almost devotional silence, no one moves. I keep my hands in my lap, the rings digging into my thigh.