Epilogue #3
He peers harder into the woods. “Prickle?”
I laugh. “Definitely.”
“Thought so.”
“Ugliest deer in Kentucky.”
“Still innocent until proven paranormal.”
I lean against him. Weeks ago, a quick internet search answered our question about the deformed deer. Apparently deer can get cutaneous fibromas, wart-like skin tumors caused by a papillomavirus. To a seven-year-old, I guess some ugly growths could look like spikes.
His arm settles around me.
His fingers find the edge of my cut. “You really wearing it?”
“Apparently.”
“That your favorite word now?”
“Apparently.”
He turns me toward him and studies the front before slipping his fingers beneath the collar until they find the hidden stitching.
WHISKEY, PROPERTY OF TWILA.
“I meant it,” I say. “Turns out I still make wishes.”
“What?”
“Equal ownership.”
“Ain’t how property works.”
“Then good thing I don’t give a shit.”
He laughs and kisses me slowly.
No urgency. No threat waiting in another room. Then his hand slides down my back. Finds the bottom edge of the cut. Stops there.
“You know what I keep thinking about?”
“That usually scares me.”
His fingers curl lightly into the leather.
“You wearing this.”
I look down. “I am wearing it.”
“Wasn’t finished.”
“Dangerous sentence.”
His mouth brushes mine.
“You wearing this and nothing else.”
Heat rolls straight through me.
“That so?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything else in this fantasy?”
His smile turns filthy.
“Handcuffs.”
I laugh softly. “Mine or yours?”
“You’re the deputy.”
“So you want me cuffed?”
Whiskey’s gaze holds mine.
“Didn’t say that.”
Oh.
My smile comes slowly.
“You want me to cuff you.”
“Equal ownership.”
I grab the front of his cut.
“Careful what you wish for.”
“Thought wishes were your thing.”
I kiss him harder.
My Interceptor is in the driveway. My house is still standing across town. My own keys are in my pocket. The door behind us is unlocked.
And inside that black leather against his chest is my name claiming him right back.
I slide my fingers beneath his collar until I find the hidden stitching.
WHISKEY, PROPERTY OF TWILA.
“Maybe tonight I find out how good a King looks in handcuffs.”
His eyes darken.
“Deputy.”
“What?”
“Wren better stay asleep.”
I grin.
I can’t fucking wait.
But I’m pulled out of my lust as Wren calls sleepily from inside, “Twila?”
Whiskey smiles. “Your kid.”
I look at him. “Your kid.”
“Equal ownership.”
“You’re pushing it.”
He laughs.
I glance once more toward the woods. Pearly Gates is still out there.
So is Crowley. Girls are still missing, Mercy still has too many meanings, and Kaylee remembered something tonight that belongs to the next part of this fight.
Sophie still has choices to make about her father, and Daddy and the Kings are probably going to find themselves on the same side of lines neither one of them likes.
Tomorrow can have all of that.
Tonight, none of it changes what this is. The door behind me is unlocked.
I can leave whenever I want.
“Twila?” Wren calls again.
I hand Whiskey my beer.
“Coming.”
Then I go inside.
I stay.
The End For Now