Chapter 3
Skyla
Logan traces a series of kisses up my cheek to my temple as we continue to stare out at Paragon, the nocturnal version—or at least one of us is staring. It’s clear that Logan Oliver has something else in mind.
I spin into him and kiss him square on the lips, only to pull away to see those root-beer-colored eyes glossed over and unblinking as they stare into mine.
“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re going to have another baby,” I warn as he traces invisible patterns on my arm.
“Is that supposed to be a deterrent?” he asks, that wicked half-smile of his doing dangerous things to my insides.
But before I can answer, the island interjects with a thunderous boom that rattles the windows and doors.
Logan’s arms tighten around me like an instinct as we look back out the window in time to see rain pelting against the glass with the determination of tiny soldiers, each droplet seems intent on fighting its way inside.
Paragon is in one of her moods tonight—raging and wild, the storm perfectly matching the unease that’s crawled under my skin ever since that encounter with my mother at the bonfire.
This rock we live on has always had a personality of its own, and tonight it feels as if it shares my suspicions about whatever game Demetri and my mother are playing. And even the elements seem to be choosing sides.
Gage is upstairs with the kids. Ten bucks says he fell asleep during story time—a casualty of Nathan and Barron’s request to hear the one where Daddy turned into a dragon for the thousandth time.
Eden usually climbs into his lap halfway through, and I bet Jaxson has sprawled across all three of them like a tiny, snoring bridge.
I always find them that way, and I always leave them that way in a tangle of limbs and blankets, too perfect to disturb.
Suffice it to say, nobody gets any decent sleep around here.
Logan threads his fingers through my hair, and I rest my head on his chest, where I can hear the steady rhythm of his heart, a sound that has become my personal definition of home.
“Remember that time I had to die to get you to admit you loved me?” Logan asks, his voice vibrating against my ear. “Talk about playing hard to get.”
“You did not.” I give him a playful swat on the arm.
“Oh, that’s right,” he teases. “It only felt like it. But I had to fight a faction war to make you officially mine.”
A laugh bubbles from me. “You are never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Not in this lifetime or the afterlife.” He offers up an unrepentant grin, and I die a little on the inside in the best way possible.
That’s the thing with the two of us; we keep killing each other just enough.
Winning and losing each other. It’s sort of a tradition at this point. “I earned those bragging rights.”
“Okay, so you did die,” I concede with a frown. “And you came back. You didn’t run a marathon.”
“What?” He inches back with a laugh. “I’ll have you know the afterlife was very tiring. All that floating around, watching you cry over me. It was exhausting.”
I poke him in the ribs. “I did not cry that much.”
“Please. The Decision Council considered naming a celestial lake after your tear production alone. Lake Skyla Laurel. It has a nice ring to it.”
“You wish,” I say, giving his ribs a tweak, and he bucks before twirling us until we land on the couch again, pulling me over him like a blanket.
I shake my head at him. “You know you’re insufferable when you’re right.”
“And considering I’m right all the time, I must be very, very insufferable.” His eyes darken as his hand slides lower on my back. “However, I’m told I have other qualities that make up for it.”
“Mmm.” I pretend to consider this. “Your coffee-making skills are acceptable.”
“Just acceptable?”
“And you’re not terrible to look at.”
His brows arch. “High praise.”
“And you did help save all of Nephilim-kind, so there’s that.”
“A minor accomplishment.”
I nod as if agreeing. “And you’re pretty good at—”
His mouth covers mine, swallowing whatever witty comment I was about to make. Not that I mind. Some conversations are better had without words. And Logan Oliver shows me exactly what he’s very, very good at.
When we break apart, I’m breathless in that way where I might actually pass out. Logan does this to me every single time, and honestly? This man is worth the oxygen deprivation.
“I say we take this party upstairs,” I whisper against his lips.
Logan doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms under my legs and back and whisks me right off the couch. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
“Kidnapping your own wife? That’s a new level of desperate,” I tease, trailing my fingers down his chest.
“Desperate?” He stops mid-step. “I can take you back to the couch.”
“Try it and die, Oliver.”
No sooner do we hit the stairs than another set of knocks erupts at the door. Three sharp raps that somehow pierce through the cacophony of the storm—far more caustic than any of Laken and Wesley’s docile knocks.
I slide my feet to the floor with a sigh that contains at least seven different curse words. “If that’s Ellis with another one of his emergency barbecue sauce situations, I’m staging an intervention.”
Logan’s eyes narrow as he moves toward the door. “At this hour, in this storm? It’s not Ellis. And it certainly isn’t Laken or Wes.”
My stomach drops as I follow him. We exchange a quick glance before he opens the door, revealing exactly who I feared we’d find—my mother.
Candace Messenger stands on our doorstep, seemingly untouched by the raging storm around her.
Not a single golden curl is disturbed, not one drop of rain has dared to land on her pristine, white glowing gown.
Her electric blue eyes, mirror images of my own, spark with something akin to triumph as she takes us in.
Candace and I are twins in every way. Much like Demetri did with Gage and Wes, my mother also hit the copy and paste button with me.
That tiny dimple in her right cheek deepens as she smiles. “Good evening.” Those two words typically sound serene, but for some reason, when my mother breathes them in our direction, they sound like a threat. A threat she’s ready to make good on.
“Candace.” Logan steps back and extends an arm for her to enter. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
I can hear both the caution and the sarcasm in his voice despite all of his best efforts. And we all know my mother can, too. She senses fear as easily as she causes it.
“I’m shocked you used the door,” I say, closing it behind her while she glides into our living room as if she owns the place. Which, given her celestial standing, she might as well.
Logan and I exchange a glance as we trail in behind her. A part of me wonders if I should text Gage for reinforcements, but I figure he’ll come down sooner or later. Most likely tomorrow morning in hunt of more of those cinnamon rolls, but still.
“Take a seat,” Logan offers.
“I don’t sit,” she says cooly as if we should know better.
“Not here at least.” She wrinkles her nose at the sofa as if it were crawling with maggots, and for all I know, it’s crawling with microscopic maggots that only the discerning eyes of a Caelestis can see.
“But I do use the door,” she muses as she turns to look at me.
“Even the supernatural appreciate civility on occasion.” She sheds an easy grin, standing in our living room like a queen holding court.
“Besides, materializing in your bedroom didn’t seem appropriate given your.
.. plans for the evening.” She rakes her eyes up and down Logan’s body because, let’s face it, he’s pretty easy to read, and twice as easy to look at.
“The kids and Gage are upstairs sleeping,” Logan says, positioning himself subtly between my mother and the staircase in a protective gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed by either of us. “So what’s going on, Candace? Why the midnight house call?”
I nod her way. “And what was that argument with Demetri about?” The question has been burning in my mind brighter than that bonfire could ever have hoped to be.
Something about their exchange felt different, more personal than their usual celestial power struggles, which is saying something since their usual power struggles have a tendency to upend entire civilizations. And that’s what worries me most.
I can’t help but wonder if this impromptu visit is somehow related.
“It is,” Candace confirms aloud, answering my unspoken thought.
I wince. “Wonderful,” I say under my breath.
It’s so easy to forget she can read my mind when she wants to. Privacy is a courtesy she extends, not a right I possess.
Some women swear that their mothers can read their minds. Mine actually can. It may come with the supernatural territory, but I will never get used to it.
A heavy sigh expels from her in lieu of a preamble.
“Demetri has been tampering with things he shouldn’t,” she begins, her expression darkening momentarily before returning to the carefully composed serenity she seems to live in.
“He’s been placing observation points in the celestial barriers around Paragon—particularly those surrounding Whitehorse. ”
“A what and a who?” I ask, blinking her way. I know it’s late, but I’m pretty sure even if I were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I wouldn’t have understood that gobbledygook that just shot from her mouth.
Logan’s posture stiffens. “Why?”
Of course, he goes in the easy way. But that doesn’t mean we’re letting my mother off easy.