Page 241 of What We Become

“Traitor,” I say.

He cracks open a beer. “I believe it’s pronounced ‘winner.’”

Sage hooks her finger in my collar and pulls me back from hitting him.

But I swear his mouth twitches.

Sage kisses my cheek. “I’m going to bed, boys. Big day tomorrow.”

She heads upstairs, and we watch her go, sighing like a bunch of cartoon characters with heart eyes.

“I love her,” Eli says.

“We all love her,” Holden says.

“Yeah,” I say. “But I love her the mostest.”

“That’s not how it works,” Micah says, rolling his eyes.

“Everything is a competition, Micah. That’s how I stay sharp.”

Knox finishes his beer. Sets it on the counter. Looks at each of us in turn.

“Tomorrow.”

I grin.

Fuck yeah, tomorrow.

FIFTY-SEVEN

SAGE

“Stop fidgeting,” Amy says, smoothing a crease in my dress that doesn’t exist. “You look perfect.”

“I look like I’m about to throw up.”

“You look perfect and like you’re about to throw up. Both things can be true.” She steps back to study her work, then squints and dusts a little more powder across my nose. “There. Done. If you cry, I will end you—this mascara is not waterproof and I refuse to be responsible for a raccoon bride.”

We’re upstairs in the en suite bathroom, the counter covered in the contents of my makeup bag and two glasses of champagne that we’ve barely touched. It was supposed to ease my nerves, but I’m too nervous to drink.

Amy looks amazing, too—her golden hair curled and pinned with sprays of baby’s breath, pink dress fluttery but sharp-lined, like she’s determined to walk down the aisle as a best friend, not as a bridesmaid. The last time I wore pink I ruined it. I decide not to mention that. She grabs both my hands and squeezes.

“Seriously,” she says, picking up my glass and handing it to me. “You look amazing. Jaw-dropping. Your guys are gonna lose their minds when they see you.”

I hold the champagne glass to my lips and smile. “I’m getting married to five men, Amy. Is that crazy?”

She bounces a shoulder as she sips her own champagne and starts putting all the makeup back in its case. “I’m here with twins as my date because I can’t seem to stop sleeping with them both. So I’m really not one to judge. I’m super happy for you, though.”

We clink glasses and move from the bathroom into the bedroom. Through the window I can see the backyard—chairs arranged in two short rows, a wooden arch draped in greenery and white flowers, fairy lights strung between the fence posts even though it’s two in the afternoon, and they won’t be visible for hours. Knox built the arch. It took him three weekends, and he wouldn’t let anyone help except Milo, who was permitted to hold the nails.

Five months since the barn, the beach, and the end of Stephen’s terror. Five months since a kitchen full of injured men proposed and promised their futures to me.

It feels like yesterday. And it also feels like a lifetime ago.

Odin’s people traced the access points Stephen used and closed them. The wider Kennel investigation is still running, but I can at least sleep through the night again. Our house feels like home.

Knox’s leg brace came off at month three, and he celebrated by immediately squatting four hundred pounds in the garage gym, which made Holden threaten to re-break it himself. Holden’s stab wound healed clean. The wound in Milo’s thigh left a scar he calls his “souvenir” and has threatened to get tattooed over with a tiny cartoon cat holding a knife in its mouth. I’m not against the idea. Eli’s cabin got fixed, slowly and lovingly, mostly by brute force and junk-food-powered weekends. It’s our favorite place to disappear now, logs and flannel sheets and a fireplace that smokes only when someone—me—forgets to open the vent. Micah’s bruises faded, though his shoulders still get stiff sometimes. Eli rubs the knots out while they sit together on the couch, and Micah leans into his hands.