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I shake my head, my jaw locking tight. “It isn’t that simple. You guys know her past. You know what Raymond took from her.”
The mention of the dead Prophet immediately drops the temperature in the lot. Silas’s eyes go dark. Jonah’s fists clench.
“June is a massive presence in our lives,” I continue, forcing the words out. “Sloane is finally healing. She’s finally learning how to exist without waiting for the sky to fall on her head. I want to give her a child more than I want my own next breath, but I am terrified of pushing her. I don’t want her to feel cornered. I don’t want to rush the process and trigger the panic.”
“You aren’t Raymond,” Elias interjects. “You offer choices. You do not issue demands.”
“I know that.” I stare at the matte black siding of the new trailer. “I just need to figure out the right time. The right way to bring it up without making her lock the deadbolt again.”
A hum makes me look toward the shadows where our fortune teller is leaning against a van. Marek shuffles his tarot deck with terrifying, fluid precision, his pale gray eyes fixed on my face.
By his side, Beau is sitting perfectly still.
“You don’t need to worry about the timing, Cole,” Marek murmurs.
I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean, brother?”
Marek’s fingers stop moving. He cuts the deck, sliding the top card onto the bottom of the stack. He doesn’t look at the imagery. He just stares right through my skull.
“It means you will have more than you can handle.”
For a moment, we just blink at him. Then I cross the distance, stopping three feet away from the mystic. “More than I can handle. Care to elaborate? Is that a threat? A blessing? Triplets? Don’t give me the spooky bullshit right now, Marek. This is my actual future we’re talking about.”
Marek doesn’t blink. A tiny, infuriating curve lifts the corner of his mouth.
Beau lets out a single, sharp bark. The dog bumps his wet nose against Marek’s knee, completely backing up his owner’s cryptic nonsense.
“Speak plain English,” I demand, jabbing a finger toward the cards.
“The cards do not speak English. They merely reveal the current path.” Marek slides the deck into his pocket. He turns his head, looking past my shoulder toward the dirt road leading into the carnival grounds. “And your path is pulling through the gates.”
I whip around.
Jonah’s SUV rolls down the gravel—the women have returned. Jules hops out of the driver’s side, hauling a massive plastic bag full of groceries. Wren emerges from the back seat, carrying a stack of folded curtains. Nova pokes out of the passenger side, already shouting demands at Silas to come carry a box of baby wipes.
Then Sloane steps out.
She’s wearing a pair of fitted black denim jeans and a simple white tank top. Her pale blonde hair is actually down, falling in loose, soft waves over her shoulders. She spots me standing by the new rig, and a bright, devastating smile breaks across her face, lighting up her icy blue eyes.
I don’t know what Marek meant. I don’t know what the future will bring. But as I watch the woman who caught my steel walk toward the home we are about to build together, the panic dissolves.
I’ll handle whatever she brings me. Every single time.
22
SLOANE
The matte black fifth-wheel trailer smells like fresh cedar, packing boxes, and the sharp tang of Jules’s whiskey.
I lean against the edge of the dark granite kitchen island, tracing the condensation on my beer bottle. Space. Actual square footage. The trailer Cole bought us possesses a kitchen as big as some of the apartments I rented after running away from Tennessee. We have a massive leather couch, a television mounted on the wall, and a bedroom that doesn’t require turning sideways to navigate.
Right now, the living area belongs entirely to the women of Seven Sins.
Nova sprawls across the length of the leather sofa, her wild auburn hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot. She rests a bottle of sparkling water on her still gently rounded stomach, her green eyes glued to the glowing screen of her phone.
“Teddy just sent another picture,” Nova announces, her thumbs flying across the glass. “Caleb threw up on Silas’s favorite cashmere vest. Silas is currently questioning the physics of infant digestion.”
Jules snorts from her spot on one of the wooden barstools. She’s wearing her usual uniform—black leather pants and a vintage band tee—her short blue hair catching the overhead pendant lights. She swirls the amber liquid in her tumbler. “Serves him right for wearing cashmere around a newborn. What did he expect? A polite warning?”
