Page 199 of The Final Cut

Marisol answers before he can say anything else. “Because he rescued her.”

Everything in me stills.

The terrace, the food, the sunlight, the bruised old house, Delia at the head of the table trying not to become the chair she sits in—all of it narrows to Deacon standing in the doorway with his hands at his sides.

“What?”

His eyes meet mine.

After all this time, all the knives and letters and blood, there’s something almost boyish in the discomfort that crosses his face.

“She was in the house.”

My throat tightens. “The night of the…?”

“Yes.”

Delia’s hand goes to her mouth.

Marisol’s eyes shine, but she keeps her voice steady. “Deacon found her after. She was frightened and hiding. He took her with him.”

I can’t speak.

Deacon steps onto the terrace. “She wasn’t hurt.”

“That’s not the point,” I manage.

“No.”

The word is quiet.

He stops near the edge of the table but doesn’t come closer, as if the space between us is something I need to choose. He knows too well when not to touch me, and some days that knowledge feels like another wound.

“What happened to her?” Delia asks.

Deacon looks at her. “She lived a long time. With me.”

The past tense goes through both of us. Delia’s eyes fill all at once.

Mine take a second longer because apparently my grief is confused about whether cats count when the entire family has been bleeding for days.

And then tears spill down my cheeks. Cats count.

God, they count.

“She wasn’t spayed,” Marisol says, wiping carefully beneath one eye. “And because Deacon isn’t nearly as immune to softness as he pretends, she ended up having a litter.”

Shiloh appears in the terrace doorway behind Deacon as if summoned by the word softness. “I knew it.”

Deacon looks back at him. “No, you didn’t.”

“You kept the kittens?”

“One.”

Shiloh’s grin spreads. “Assassin kitten rescue. This is devastating for your brand.”

“Shiloh,” Nash warns from inside.