Epilogue
Pearl’s snoring is truly the equivalent of sawing wood. Or an approaching train.
My eyes open, and now that I’m awake, I can hear everything else that her snoring had been covering.
Though my mind takes a few minutes to swim upward out of the cloudy, pleasant depths of dreams. Crickets sing outside, a legion of them somewhere near my window judging by just how loud they are, and a nice breeze blows inward, sending the thin, lacy curtains reaching toward me.
I never thought I could love the sight of curtains blowing in the breeze before, but now it just feels so comfortable. So much like home, even though it’s still new for me. From downstairs, I can hear Fox and Deacon, and one of them laughs a full, surprised laugh that must be Fox.
“Hey,” I sigh, sitting up in bed. “It’s dinnertime, you know. Not that you need the extra food, with how fat you’re getting.” Pearl opens her dark brown eyes, regarding me, then closes them promptly as if she can fake being asleep.
“Pearl, I literally know you’re awake.” I run my hand over her head, down her smooth-furred body, until I’m patting the pudge of her belly.
I have no idea how she’s gotten fat when she’s the most active dog I know.
Especially with me, on our escape attempts, and with all the man-killing she’s been doing.
“Maybe we need to find you another victim. That would burn some calories, right?” I chuckle, finally getting out from under her.
She yawns and stretches, her front legs out in front of her while she kicks her back paws.
Instead of getting up, Pearl just rolls into my warm spot while I head for the window, nose to the screen as I gaze outside.
The setting sun is far enough below the trees that the yard is cast in shadow, but there’s something beautiful in that, too. Fireflies wink in and out of existence, and it’s hard to even want to tear myself away from the sight and the feeling of that cool, summer breeze.
I could be happy here.
I want to be happy here.
Through the window, I can see the dark outlines of the shed and the workshop. I know what’s in the workshop tonight, even though Deacon tried to be sly when he moved the Hills’ bodies in there. I didn’t say anything.
There’s nothing to say.
There’s nothing more for me to do other than accept it, or leave.
The back gate key is still sitting on the end table, and I turn to glance at it, watching the way it reflects the light from the digital clock that reads 8:01. Some part of me still yearns to grab it, to run, to get out of here and go back to Nashville where everything is safe and boring and—
Where no one misses me.
The pang of hurt is sharper than I think it’ll be, and I lean against the window frame, taking a few breaths while Pearl starts snoring again, though this time I’m pretty sure it’s just an act to convince me to take pity on her.
God forbid she has to trundle down the stairs for handouts, when she should be pampered and brought a silver platter of choice tidbits.
Not that she doesn’t deserve that and more.
I stand there, staring blankly, unmoving other than when my eyes catch the flicker of another firefly.
I could be happy here.
With two men who care about me. Who’ve told me they love me, who’ve killed for me and saved me from a terrible fate.
Everyone has flaws, theirs are just…darker than others. But they aren’t monsters, they aren’t—
No, Sadie-Rae, I chastise mentally, giving a soft snort. They are absolutely one hundred percent monsters.
But they aren’t monsters like the Hills. Like Sebastian, who tried to assault me, then turned it on me so I lost all of my friends, including Emma. They aren’t like that.
And maybe I can live with the kind of monsters they are, if it means being loved by them.
“Sadie-Rae!” Deacon’s voice travels up the stairs, and I glance back toward my door, shifting my weight from one foot to the other on the hard planks below me. “Dinner’s ready. You up?”
“I’m up!” I call back automatically. Then turn away from the window, nearly inhaling a curtain, and look at Pearl. “Come on, if you want food. I’m not carrying your second dinner up to you.”
I would, but I’ll pretend I won’t.
She gives a huff and rolls off the bed, landing on all four paws and trotting across to the door in front of me, like going downstairs is her idea instead of mine.
With all the initiative of the pudgy queen she is, Pearl lumbers down the stairs, heads down the hallway, and goes straight to Deacon while he sets the table.
“She’s already eaten,” I say dryly, rolling my eyes and picking up the stack of plates from beside him. “You know that, right?”
Deacon chuckles and reaches down to scratch her ears while she begs. “Yeah, but she needs all the food she wants. Don’t you?” he asks, his voice soft and affectionate.
“Because she’s a man-killer who needs to be kept in top physical condition?” I set the places at the table, one on one side, two on the other for them. When I look up, Deacon is looking at me with a strangely bemused expression on his face. “What?” I ask. “She’s getting fat.”
“Sadie…” he snickers, and runs his fingers through his hair. “She’s not getting fat.”
“Have you seen her stomach?”
“I think she’s pregnant.”
That stops me dead, and I look at him, eyes a little wide. “No way.”
“Uh, yeah. Even Fox noticed.” The sheriff in question walks in with a platter of potatoes and a bowl of green beans, which go on the table on either side of the rolls Ms. Hewitt brought by because she’s a saint and a wizard with carbohydrates.
Picking one up, Fox looks at me and nods, the roll already crammed into his mouth. “You thought she was getting fat?” He snorts. “Pearl doesn’t get fat.” With that, he turns away, heading back into the kitchen.
Surprised, I sit, making the wooden chair creak under me while Deacon picks up a small piece of potato with his fingers and tosses it to Pearl, who catches it easily in midair.
I take the time to study her, to really look at her, and it hits me that maybe I am just dumb, because her stomach doesn’t look fat like I initially thought.
“Holy shit, we’re having puppies,” I murmur. “I call the mean one.”
“Great. You can have the mean one. I get all the others,” Deacon agrees, easing down to sit across from me. “Except the dopey one. Fox can have that one.”
“What do you think they are?” An excitement that I’m not used to rises in my chest, along with a sudden anxiety. “She’s okay, right? Is there a vet in Wolf Lake? Should we—?”
“She’s not about to pop tomorrow,” Deacon interjects, rolling his eyes. “And I have no idea what they are. You know how many unaltered dogs live in Wolf Lake? Or near it? Hell, maybe they’re coy dogs. We don’t even know when it happened.”
He’s right, and before I can ask anything else, Fox returns, setting the meat platter down in front of us, in the middle of the table like it deserves a place of honor.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was pork.
The meat is cut like a pork chop, drenched in barbecue sauce, and still steaming.
It’s sliced already, with medallions lying neatly in one row on the pristine porcelain.
Tonight’s dishes have ribbons of blue along the outside, along with what looks like floral patterns intersecting and wrapping around the ribbons.
It reminds me of china in museums, of old art and antiques found in roadside shops.
My fingers rub around the edge of my plate, tracing the patterns and swirling with the ribbon. I can feel their attention on me; I can feel the expectation.
I could be happy here.
I watch as Deacon picks up the meat fork and, without asking, he puts a piece of meat on my plate, followed by potatoes and green beans.
If I had to guess, once again, the meat isn’t the only dangerous thing, and my stomach curls a little, even as the steam invading my nostrils makes my mouth water.
He really is such a good cook.
Thoughts fly through my head, possibilities, fears, all mixed together until it feels like one ball of uncertainty.
What will it taste like?
Can I keep it down?
Oh God, what if I can’t do this?
I could be happy here.
“Thank you,” I breathe, as Pearl stretches out across my feet under the table. Even though both of them have served themselves, I can feel their attention on me. I know they’re watching. Waiting. They need to know, and so do I.
The meat is tender enough that I barely need a knife. It falls apart under just a little bit of pressure, and I force my hands to work so I can spear a piece on the tines of the fork and lift it up, dripping, to my mouth.
I could be happy here, I tell myself, drowning out every other thought that makes my stomach turn and my heart slam into my ribs.
Waste not, want not. Deacon’s voice echoes in my head just as I open my mouth and set the meat against my tongue.
I will be happy here.