Chapter 2
Skyla
The scent of sea salt and Eden’s strawberry bubble bath lingers in the air, mixing with the subtle aroma of cinnamon and pumpkin spice.
Earlier this morning, Laken and I baked pumpkin muffins, followed by pumpkin cinnamon rolls with a pumpkin cream cheese frosting.
Okay, fine. Laken did all the heavy culinary lifting, but I watched and licked the bowls with unbridled abandon. Plus, she said I made a great cheering section once I screamed my head off after my first bite of each.
Those sweet treats have basically been demolished, but the scent of both lives on like a ghost in the house. Fall is in the air, and so is my appetite for all things pumpkin spice. Bonus points if it’s slathered in cream cheese frosting. And it must be slathered in exactly that. I’m not a monster.
Outside, the waves beat gently against the shoreline, their rhythm a constant reminder of why we chose Whitehorse—that perfect blend of isolation and security that’s hard to find on an island full of supernatural beings with some serious boundary issues.
Mostly that would be my mother, Lizbeth, who would pay cold, hard cash to get me to move back to the Landon house with my entire clan.
You’d think I’ve moved to Mars instead of less than a mile down the road, the way she goes on about it.
Of course, we’re not behind the Gates where Paragon’s elite call home, but we have the ocean. Our constant companion that reminds us that even Paragon has borders, a beginning and an end, limits that even it can’t cross.
Inside the house is an eclectic mix of warm dark wood, pale walls, creamy marble countertops, and an overabundance of toys that would make Santa’s workshop jealous.
Our living room glows with amber light from the stone fireplace, casting glowing shadows across the white walls that are done up to the nines with framed photos of our chaotic family saga. And each and every one of those pictures has the ability to make me smile.
A plush sectional eats up most of the living room—big enough to accommodate our family and friends without anyone having to touch elbows and knees unless they want to, and someone always wants to, so it’s more of a tangle of limbs.
The furniture is modern yet comfortable, just like everything else in this mini-mansion we’ve somehow made into a home.
The TV is on, snacks are on hand, and the sound of children screaming at top volume vibrates the spindles on the wrought iron staircase as if they were tuning forks. I think they’re having fun. I hope they’re having fun. As long as no one’s crying or on fire, I’m calling it a win.
Logan stretches his arm across the back of the couch, his fingers absent-mindedly playing with my hair while Gage is sprawled in the adjacent recliner, remote in hand, flipping through channels with the focus of someone looking to adequately hypnotize himself before bed.
“If you pass by that cooking competition one more time without stopping, I’m going to lose it—and you might lose an arm,” I warn, only half-teasing as I sink deeper into the cushions.
“I need to see amateur chefs crying over burnt cookies to feel better about my own culinary disasters. Plus, it helps me unwind at night.”
Logan chuckles, and I can feel his chest strum against my shoulder. “What disasters? You make a mean toast.”
“It’s true, I’ve mastered the art of burning things,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “But then, that’s why we keep Gage around. Someone has to feed the children—and us. And someone has to make sure we don’t starve.”
Gage rumbles a laugh. “You keep telling Logan that’s the only reason.” He gives a sly wink my way as he says it.
I shrug at Logan. “He can also reach the high shelves,” I tease as a tiny laugh trembles through me. “And he’s great at opening jars. And you should see what he can do with his—”
A sharp knock erupts at the door before I can detail his talent for unclogging toilets and negotiating with the raccoons that keep getting in our trash. The knocking persists, and the three of us look that way.
Once again, there are three sharp raps—too deliberate for Tad, too gentle for Ezrina or Chloe.
I glance out the window and see the inky black sky. It’s late. And why do I get the sinking feeling nothing good is going to come of this visit?
“Please tell me we ordered Chinese food and I blocked it out,” I say, not moving from Logan’s warmth. “I would literally commit crimes for kung pao chicken right now.”
“I would, too, but I’m pretty sure we didn’t call for anything. Not unless supernatural drama delivers now,” Logan says, rising with me.
A supernatural drama delivery service? My gut says Logan is spot-on.
Gage rises from his seat. “Don’t worry, Skyla. I’ll order food after we deal with this. I’m starving anyway. But Chinese can wait. The end of the world apparently can’t.”
“I’ll get it,” I say, racing past them both, padding across the hardwood floors in my socks as silent as a ninja, as I reach the massive oak door that’s withstood more celestial drama than most celestial courthouses.
To my surprise, the peephole reveals Wesley and Laken wearing matching expressions of doom, looking as if they’ve misplaced something far more substantial than an order of Chinese food. And yet the sight of them fills me with relief. At least it’s not Candace.
“It’s just Laken and Wes,” I say, swinging the door open, and there they stand.
Wesley Edinger is the carbon copy of Gage, yet somehow carved from slightly harder stone.
Same face, harder lines, like life decided to use him as a punching bag a few more times.
Demetri’s genes hover over both him and Gage like a ghost.
Next to him, Laken somehow manages to look gorgeous despite the obvious new-mom exhaustion. Baby Cooper is strapped to her chest, completely zonked out with his mouth doing that tiny baby-breathing thing that makes ovaries explode.
“Let me guess,” I say, waving them in. “Cooper’s not sleeping, and misery loves company?”
“Close,” Wes says. “We lost his blanket. The one he literally cannot exist without. Not only that, but Cooper’s entire life support system seems to be missing.”
Laken sighs, shifting Cooper slightly. “The diaper bag. Please tell me you’ve seen it.”
“You bet I did,” I say. “Only I wasn’t sure who it belonged to. I meant to take a picture of it and put it in the group chat, but my brain was fried. I was just about to crash.”
Logan holds the expensive white bag up like a trophy. “Looking for this?”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Laken says with a laugh. “I was so afraid we’d have to go hunting on the beach with flashlights.”
“You mean I would go hunting for it,” Wes says, dropping a kiss on her temple.
“Technically, it was me who did the hunting.” Gage nods over to them. “I grabbed it on the way back to the house. Take a seat.”
“We shouldn’t,” Wes starts, but Laken is already moving past me, the siren call of a comfortable couch too powerful to resist for a woman who likely hasn’t sat uninterrupted in months. Not that she will tonight either, but still.
“Just for a minute,” she says, carefully lowering herself onto the sofa with a sigh. “Oh wow, that is so comfortable. Wes, we either need a new couch just like this or we need to move in.”
We all share a laugh at that one.
“I vote for the latter,” I’m quick to tell her. “We wouldn’t even charge you rent. We’d just make you bake us those cinnamon rolls every single day,” I say, taking a seat next to one of my best friends in the whole world and peering over at that cute little angel in her arms.
Cooper is Laken and Wes’ brand-new son, who is just four months old.
They also share October and Maleficent, the girls Wes had with Chloe, and a son, Eli, who Wes had with Kresley.
Suffice it to say, Wes has been more than prolific.
And, of course, there’s Charlie, the daughter Laken shares with Coop.
And little Wes, whom she shares with Wesley.
Laken had Cooper on the heels of baby Wes, Jr. His full name is Wesley Cooper. And this time, they went all the way with just Cooper, whom they named after Laken’s first husband, who was lost in the faction war.
Once upon a time, Wes and Coop were best friends, too.
The tiny tot punches the air as he squirms and scrunches his face as he closes his eyes, and I can’t help but coo. “Oh, wow, he just gets sweeter.”
“He’s in his milk coma.” Laken laughs. “We have approximately twenty minutes before he remembers he has lungs.”
Wesley takes a seat on the edge of the couch like a man ready to flee at the first sign of trouble, a habit he’s never quite broken despite a year of relative peace. I’ll admit, I spend more time on the edge than I’d like to admit myself.
“Heads up,” Logan calls out as he reappears with a tray holding four glasses and a bottle of something amber that looks expensive. “I figured as long as you’re breaking into our evening programming, we might as well do it right.”
“No, thanks,” Laken says, gesturing to the baby. “I’m still a one-woman dairy farm.”
“Same,” I say, and he quickly lands a glass of something bubbly in my hand despite it.
“It’s cider from earlier for you girls,” he says with a grin. “I’ve got the leaded version for the rest of us.”
“I knew I liked you,” Laken says, taking the drink.
“More of the good stuff for me,” Wes says, accepting a glass with a nod of thanks, as does Gage.
Nobody talks for a minute, and it’s perfect. We’ve been through enough hell together that silence feels like a conversation. Plus, with kids? Silence is basically currency.
I shake my head at Laken. “I don’t know why I feel a little sad after all the fun we had on the sand tonight,” I say, lifting my glass as if toasting for nothing.
“Because summer is officially over,” Laken says without hesitating. “Not that Paragon let us have any sunshine. But we’ve gotten really good at pretending.”
“You said it, sister.” I clink my glass to hers and we take another drink.