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His mouth curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll come to you as soon as we’re done. Make sure you don’t get too carried away.”

He leaned in, pressing his mouth to mine.

I kissed him back without thinking, and it was the most natural thing in the world, like my lips had always known his.

His hands slid to my hips, pulling me closer.

Then one of my bags bumped into his leg, the awkward reminder breaking the perfect moment. I pulled back, my cheeks flushed.

He gave a low, amused sound, his hands lingering as if he hated letting go. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay,” I managed, fingers trembling as I pulled out my phone and tapped the security app to unlock the front gate.

The soft mechanical click echoed behind me, snapping me back to reality. I started up the driveway, feeling the weight of his stare on my back the whole way. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder, but I felt him there waiting and watching until the moment I disappeared from his view.

As soon as I stepped through the front door, the warmth of being home truly hit me—spiced, sweet, and familiar.

I headed to the kitchen and found two of my favorite people on the planet.

Mom stood at the range, humming under her breath, a wooden spoon in one hand and a pan of masala eggs sizzling in front of her.

Her dark hair was twisted into its usual low knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face, catching the early gold of sunlight pouring through the glass-paneled ceiling above.

She moved with effortless rhythm, gliding between the stovetop and the marble island.

Perched on one of the barstools like she’d been summoned from a throne was Sugarmama. Wrapped in a designer fleece robe, bare feet swinging slightly beneath the high stool, she spotted me first. “There’s my gulabo .”

I smiled and walked straight to her, dropping a kiss on her cheek. She narrowed her eyes, pulling back just enough to scan my face with that lethal radar only grandmothers possessed. “Mmmhm. Me and you are going to have a little baatcheet before you head back, Beti .”

I said nothing, giving her the most innocent look I could muster and silently pleading the fifth.

Mom turned, eyes softening. She set the spoon down and crossed the kitchen with open arms, wrapping me into a hug that smelled like sandalwood, cinnamon, and every part of my childhood that still knew how to feel safe.

“My girl,” she whispered, kissing my cheek. “We’ve missed you.”

I held onto her longer than I meant to. I needed this. The only thing missing was Dad and Nonno. She eventually pulled back with a smile, brushing a hand over my cheek. Before she could read too much.

“Is Shakira still asleep?” I didn’t see my younger sister anywhere.

“She’ll be down when her stomach wakes up,” Mom replied, already back to work, her bangles softly clinking as she stirred the paratha filling. “Your dad and Nonno should be back soon, too. Go set the table?”

Already, the kitchen was a mosaic of scents—idli steaming in one pot, ricotta pancakes warming in the oven, a platter of prosciutto, burrata, and roasted tomatoes beside a still-warm focaccia. Every weekend was like this. Part Mumbai, part southern Italy, and just enough American comfort to bridge.

“Did you guys get in too late?” Mom asked as she plated the last of the masala eggs.

I gathered plates from the cupboard. She’d probably woken up the second Ryder’s truck pulled into the drive. Shit . Our cameras. The realization sank in all at once: if she or anyone else checked the feed, they’d see Ryder kissing me goodbye.

“Not too bad,” I managed, my voice light even as my mind spun. “We stopped at Penny’s first, like always.”

I wasn’t sure how to begin explaining this situation. I was in no shape or form ready for that conversation.

Sugarmama raised her glass again. “You kids make this old soul so happy, keeping up traditions.”

I barely managed not to grimace. Someone really needed to erase that word from every dictionary. English, Italian, Hindi, all of them—until The Hunt was over.

“Sugarmama, you are not that old.”

“I’ve survived six wars, four husbands, a breast reduction, and a full viewing of The Sopranos—three times. I’m a relic.”

Mom didn’t even look up. “The wars were because you didn’t know how to hold your tongue, and two of those husbands don’t know you exist.”

Mom glanced over her shoulder as she plated the paratha. “So, how is everyone doing? We all had lunch the other day, the parents, I mean. We’re all looking forward to coming up for the next home games.”

That was no surprise. The bond between our families went way back, deeper than most people in Hemlock could understand.

There were holidays spent together, birthdays celebrated as one big chaotic blur, and an unspoken understanding that any one of us could show up at the other's house and be fed, hugged, or told off like we belonged there.

I smiled, focusing on folding the napkins. “Everyone’s good. I’m excited too. Roxxi’s got us learning the new routine in our sleep. I swear she might be plotting to trademark it.”

Sugarmama, never one to let a moment slide by without adding her flavor, narrowed her eyes over the rim of her coffee mug. “And how’s your guy?”

I didn’t look up. “He went home to help his dad a few days ago.”

“I didn’t mean that one,” she harrumphed.

My head lifted slowly, pulse tripping. Mom paused at the counter.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I feigned indifference, reaching for the water glasses with what I hoped was the most neutral tone in existence.

Sugarmama snorted. “Mmhm. And I’m a virgin of many men.”

I didn’t even know what that meant, and I wasn’t asking.

Mom gave her a look. “Please don’t talk about such things while I’m cooking.” She smiled at me. “How is school? You don’t say much about it in our texts.”

“It’s going,” I answered, sliding the last fork beside a plate. “I’ve got a few things to work on this weekend—nothing major.”

That was mostly true. Technically.

I almost told them about being Marked. The words hovered at the back of my throat, like maybe if I just let them out, the weight of it would shrink.

But I wasn’t ready for that conversation either.

Not yet. Maybe not ever. My family was already protective on a normal day.

Add something like the Hunt, and I had no doubt they would go full Liam Neeson in Taken before breakfast while I was still standing right in front of them.

Actually, I was surprised Dad hadn’t found out about my status yet.

As far as I knew, he kept a close eye on everything related to the game.

From the foyer came a familiar, booming voice.

“Where’s my Stellina?”

I grinned instantly and turned toward the hallway, heart tugging in his direction before my feet even moved.

Seconds later, Papà appeared looking as sharp as ever. Tall, broad, still in his running jacket with damp, dark hair from his morning workout. He swept me into a hug so tight I barely got air in.

“There she is,” he murmured into my hair. “My girl.”

“Hi, Papà,” I mumbled into his chest, squeezing him back.

Before I could fully exhale, I was passed off into another set of strong arms—my Nonno, who smelled like espresso and old cologne ever after working out. His bristly cheek scratched mine as he pulled me in.

“My sunshine,” he said warmly, patting my back before holding me at arm’s length. His blue eyes narrowed in mock judgment. “Still too thin. You don’t eat enough in that dorm.”

“I live in a house,” I reminded him with a laugh.

He waved that off like it didn’t matter.

Once the table was finished and the laughter mellowed into a quiet conversation, I offered to go wake Shakira.

My dad and Nonno had gone to wash up, Sugarmama was pouring herself a mimosa, muttering her go-to motto, “light on the juice, heavy on the spirit.” Mom was sliding a tray of naan into the warming drawer with that focused hum she always made when she cooked.

I slipped out of the kitchen and padded through the main hallway. The house always felt like a museum when it was quiet—grand and gilded, but it had been home my entire life, and I loved it.

The staircase curved like something out of a palace, black and gold railings catching flecks of morning light from the crystal chandelier above. I took the steps two at a time, fingers brushing the cool metal rail.

At the landing, sunlight poured through the tall arched window, casting warmth across the glossy floors.

I turned left, toward the wing my sister’s room was in, passing a gallery wall of framed memories.

Birthdays, vacations, my parents over the years, a funny Halloween shot they refused to take down, and Diwali nights where everyone dressed in silk and ended up barefoot on the terrace eating Laddu.

Shakira’s door was closed. I paused in front of it and knocked gently, then cracked it open when I got no reply.

The room was dim, blackout curtains drawn tight like always.

I stepped inside quietly, the door clicking shut behind me, and crossed the soft rug to the bed that looked like it had swallowed her whole.

“Shakira,” I said softly.

No answer.

I leaned closer. “Ki, breakfast is ready. And Sugarmama already made two wildly inappropriate comments, so you’re missing the show.”

Still nothing.

I sighed and tugged the blanket down just enough to reveal a mass of curls and a pretty face mashed into the pillow.

Her eyes cracked open. At first, all I got was sleepy confusion, then came the recognition.

“Sanj!” she squealed.

Before I could brace myself, she launched. Like a spider-monkey, she latched onto me. Her arms were around my neck; her legs cinched around my waist. I stumbled back, laughing, holding her tight so we didn’t both crash to the floor.

“I knew you were coming, but nobody said you were already here!” she babbled into my hair. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?!”

“Because you were snoring through the second coming,” I wheezed, trying not to topple.

“I do not snore,” she objected, scandalized. “Do I?”

“You absolutely do.”

She gasped. “Liar!” She hugged me tighter. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, baby,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to her curls and holding her just as fiercely.

Eventually, she slid down, yawning through her grin. “Okay. Give me ten minutes to get all the parts in working order, and I’ll be downstairs.”

“Clock’s ticking,” I teased, nudging her toward her bathroom.

The table was nearly full by the time I made it back downstairs, the smell of chai and cumin-heavy eggs warming the air.

I slid into my usual seat. Across from me sat Nonno.

Most people would find it odd that my paternal grandfather and maternal grandmother shared a roof, but we weren’t most people.

Our family had never separated.

My other grandparents were long gone. One to illness, the other to a silence that had never left room for answers. These two were best friends. Bickering, scheming, laughing like overgrown children with decades of loyalty between them.

“You’re late,” Nonno said, wagging his fork at me in mock disapproval.

“Give the girl a break,” Sugarmama drawled from beside him. “She just got back from a night at the Voss estate. Let her soak in her sins a little.”

My mom made a quiet noise of protest from the other end of the table.

“Ma,” she sighed, slicing a mango. “Why does everything have to be a scandal?”

“Scandals keep breakfast from being boring,” Sugarmama replied, lifting her glass. “Especially when it’s this good.”

I shook my head, reaching for a slice of warm, buttered focaccia, already bracing for the next volley.

“Rye and I are just—.”

“Friends,” my father cut in flatly, his tone as dry as the toast on his plate. “We’ve heard the story, Stellina .”

I narrowed my eyes at him, but before I could fire back with something even halfway convincing, Nonno stepped in. “That boy hasn’t seen you as a friend since you ran him over with your unicorn bike in the second grade.”

Sugarmama laughed so hard her mimosa nearly spilled. “Oh, I remember that! Poor thing had a tire track down his shirt and still followed her around like a lovesick little puppy.”

Dad dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then leaned back with a chuckle. “Now, let’s not demean the kid. Lovesickness is a bit extreme. I like the word devoted.”

I stared at them as if they’d all grown extra heads. Was the universe assigning people to conspire about us lately?

Jesus.

Shakira came strolling in, curls now whipped into something tame and fresh-faced.

She dropped a kiss on our father’s cheek, then Nonno’s, mumbling a half-hearted, “Morning,” before plopping into the seat beside me. Then, with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball: “Can you guys let Sanj eat before turning breakfast into an arranged marriage reveal?”

“Thank you,” I muttered, reaching for the chai Mom had made for me.

“She has a boyfriend, remember?” Shakira went on, grabbing the platter of eggs like she hadn’t just detonated a bomb. “And Ryder’s with that Playboy bombshell—” She paused, wrinkled her nose, and looked over at me. “Though you’re prettier. I mean, obviously.”

“Thanks,” I replied dryly. “I feel so reassured.”

“I’m not just saying that as a dutiful sister,” she clarified quickly, tone serious.

Dad lifted a brow. “And how exactly do you know what Ryder’s doing?”

Shakira shrugged, completely unfazed. “The internet came to exist sometime in your life, Dad. And I’m soul sisters with Cadence.”

I barely heard the rest because my brain betrayed me, flashing back to last night. To the quiet tension in the pool house. To the heat of his mouth on mine. The weight of him between my thighs. The way he called me his.

And then this morning…

A rush of heat crawled up my neck. I glanced up and froze. Sugarmama was watching me from behind her glass, that same knowing look she always wore when someone at the table thought they were keeping a secret.

She didn’t say a word. She smiled slowly, like she already knew the secret I’d stuck between last night and this morning. I went back to eating, pretending nothing had changed since the last time I’d come home, knowing everything had.

If only I knew how much further my life was about to unravel.