"I know."
"Is he worth it? Doran?"
I think about that question, really consider it.
Is he worth the violence, the moral compromises, the constant danger?
Is he worth using sick ex-boyfriends as weapons and having cartel leaders threaten my family?
"I don't know," I admit. "But I think... I think maybe we're worth it. What we could be."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Dalla reaches across the table, takes my hand. "Whatever you decide tomorrow—showing up or not—I'm with you. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"Good. Because I have a feeling shit's about to get complicated."
Mom appears in the doorway, flour in her hair and batter on her apron. "Girls? What are you doing up?"
"Couldn't sleep," I say, not mentioning Ingrid or Njal or any of it.
"Me either." She moves to the oven, checking whatever's inside. "Thought I'd make cinnamon rolls for tomorrow morning. Something special for..." She trails off.
"For my wedding day," I finish.
"Yeah." Her voice cracks slightly. "Your wedding day."
"Mom—"
"Years," she says suddenly, not looking at us. "For years I've known this day would come. Tried to pretend it wouldn't, tried to believe we'd find another way. But here we are."
"It's not your fault," Dalla says.
"Isn't it?" Mom turns, tears tracking through the flour on her cheeks. "I'm your mother. I'm supposed to protect you. Instead, I'm sending my baby girl off to marry a man she barely knows because of a deal made before she was even born."
"I know him now," I say quietly. "Maybe not everything, but I know enough."
"Enough to marry him?"
"Enough to try."
The oven timer beeps.
Mom pulls out a tray of perfect cinnamon rolls, the smell filling the kitchen with warmth and comfort.
Such normal things in such an abnormal moment.
The front door opens hard enough to bang against the wall. We all jump. Male voices, urgent and low.
I recognize my father's rumble.
Dad appears in the kitchen doorway, face grim. "It's done."
"Njal?" The name sticks in my throat.