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My brows pull in as I swipe the residue of milk off my top lip. “Are you serious?”
“Saint, look who our father is, and you don’t even know half of the evil shit he has done in his lifetime—and aside from that, I can’t keep my little fucking sister safe, let alone not one, but two fucking babies. Babies, Saint. Plural. What if they’re two girls? Oh fuck, I really hope they’re not two girls.”
I chuckle quietly, but before I can contain it, it turns into full fits of laughter.
“Stop laughing.”
“I’m sorry. Stop scowling.” My giggles die out as I push my empty glass away. “Bishop, you are the most protective, loving, and dangerous man I know—aside from you know who. Every time I hear your voice, I feel safe. Untouchable. Like nothing and no one can come near me. You’re going to be a great father, and if not, I’ll still be here. I’ll be here for you through everything and anything. Providing you and Brantley give me that freedom.” My eyes roll.
His chuckle is deep. I can hear he’s drifting off to sleep. “I haven’t slept a full night since Madison has been back.”
I begin making my way upstairs to my bedroom, closing the door quietly behind me and climbing into bed.
“Are you worried about the babies?”
“No.” He yawns, and I turn off my bedside light. “I’m worried that I’m going to let her back in and she’s going to walk back out when it gets tough again.”
My eyes close, but my mouth keeps moving. “She won’t, Bishop.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because she made me a promise.”
I shoot up from my bed, my cheek throbbing from where my phone sat against it all night. Bishop must have hung up at some point. I open a message from him.
Bishop: Damn. You snore.
Saint: If I do, I got it from you.
Plugging my phone into the charger, I move around the room to get ready for the day. I’m pulling on my jeans when there’s a knock on my door.
“Come in!”
“I figured since I have you here for however long I do, why not make the most of it?” Veronica leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed. She’s wearing a black silk robe that falls right down to her bare feet. Her hair is half-up and half-down, her face free from any visible makeup. Her skin is pale, but it’s flawless.
“Can I ask you a question?” I finish the fishtail braid in my hair and pick up my Vans.
She raises one perfectly arched brow. “I’m almost certain you’re going to ask it anyway.”
“True.” I take a slow seat on the bed, squeezing the sheets in the palm of my hand. “How old are you?”
The corner of her mouth tips into a crooked grin. “That, my Hecate, is something I never disclose.” She brings her hand out to me. “Come on. We can start the first part of our day.”
I swoop up my phone and shove it into the back of my jeans, before following her down the long hallway and to the staircase. I still can’t seem to figure her out. She has walls covering her emotions and exudes energy in a way I have never felt.
“So what are we doing?” I ask, following her through the main foyer and down the long corridor. Pillars line each side like the Colosseum, our footsteps echoing through the vast and empty space.
“Well, I thought I’d show you something that you might be interested in before tonight.” She presses open twin doors and I freeze. The explosion of greenery rushes forward and I squeeze my hands tightly into fists. Fat, lush leaves, sprouting floral flowers, and large towering trees are placed all over the room, which I quickly figure out is a large greenhouse that seems to be attached to the main house.
“Wow.” I step inside and inhale musky, sweet leaves and rich-soiled earth. Reaching toward a potted fiddle leaf tree with leaves as large as my body, I brush the palm of my hand over the damp soil. “This place is magical.” The ceiling reaches as high as the main house, with every inch partially tinted windows. The air is humid and warm, without being sticky, and enough filtered light beaming in. There are sprinklers hanging from the ceiling where mist trickles out.
“It was built not long after the main house was. In the old days, my ancestors had to make do with what they had, so they created their own greenhouse-style garden deep in the forest.”
“I’d love to see that one day,” I say, rubbing the soil between my fingers.
Veronica stifles a smile. “You’ll see it tonight for The Hunt.”
I move around the area, admiring all of the plants. Elephant ears, some variegated, so beautiful that the marble of white contrasts all of the green. Monsteras of all strands and again, some variegated, and Devil’s Ivy, Philodendron all growing roguishly throughout to give a natural setting. This greenhouse isn’t clean. Veronica has allowed the plants to grow whatever way they want.