Page 10 of Sadistic

Dalla's curled in the bed across from mine, mascara smudged under her eyes, still in her clubbing dress.

We look like what we are—two girls who went looking for normal and found our futures instead.

"Stop staring at me," she mumbles without opening her eyes. "It's creepy."

"How did you know I was staring?"

"Twin thing." She cracks one eye open. "Also, you breathe louder when you're overthinking."

Before I can respond, the sound of car doors slamming outside makes us both freeze.

It's too early for visitors, too precise to be neighborhood noise.

I whisper, creeping to the window, "Stay here."

A black town car idles in Everly's driveway.

The driver—muscle in an expensive suit—is already walking back to his vehicle, leaving my car keys on the porch.

"Motherfucker actually did it," I breathe.

Dalla's beside me now, peering through the curtains. "Did what?"

"Doran said my car would be delivered in the morning." I check my phone: 7:23 AM. "He's a man of his word, I'll give him that."

Everly appears in the doorway, an almost two-year-old Boden on her hip, looking impossibly put-together for someone with two kids and a third on the way.

Her blonde curls are pulled back in a messy bun, and she's wearing one of Regnor's old t-shirts that stretches over her belly.

"Coffee's ready. And looks like your car's back."

We stumble after her to the kitchen, still in yesterday's clothes, feeling every minute of lost sleep.

Eira's already at the table, syrup in her hair and in her princess pajamas, chattering about pancakes to her stuffed wolf.

"Aunt Rev!" Eira launches herself at my legs with sticky hands. "Mama says you're getting married! Are you gonna wear a princess dress?"

I smooth her wild curls, so much like her mother's. "Something like that, baby."

"Can I be in the wedding? I know how to throw flowers now. Boden taught me, but he eats them sometimes, so maybe not him."

"We'll see." The words stick in my throat because in two weeks—not four, according to the text that woke me at 3 AM—I'll be married to a man who tracks my every move.

Everly sets coffee in front of us, her movements careful but practiced.

The kitchen smells like vanilla and cinnamon, like safety and home. "Regnor's taking the kids to the park in a bit. Figured you might want to talk without little ears."

"Daddy said a bad word yesterday," Eira announces. "He said 'fuck' when he hit his thumb."

Everly gives her daughter a look. "And we don't repeat bad words, do we?"

"No. But sometimes Uncle Bjorn says?—"

"Okay, munchkin, let's get you cleaned up." Regnor appears, scooping Eira up.

His dark eyes meet mine briefly, taking in our disheveled state. "That's some ring."

I glance down at my bare finger, then remember I left it on the nightstand. "It's... yeah."

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