My parents adored Evan.
That surprised him more than anyone.
My mother looked him up and down the first time she really saw him after his rise in Black Harbor and said, “So this is the one.”
My father just watched him for a while and asked, “Would you die for her?”
Evan answered without hesitation. “Yes.”
My father considered that.
Then he asked, “Would you live for her?”
That took longer.
Not because Evan needed time to think, but because he understood the difference.
“Yes,” he said at last. “If she asked me to.”
That was when my father nodded.
Later, when we were alone, I asked, “Were you testing him?”
My father poured himself a drink and said, “Anyone can throw their life away. Men like him especially. Living well, staying sharp, surviving long enough to stay useful—that’s harder.”
“Useful?”
“To you,” he corrected.
I rolled my eyes, but I knew what he meant.
Black Harbor had stabilized under our people. Julia had reclaimed her family. The Caldwells had lost their golden son. The pieces had all settled in different places than whatever original plot this world had once intended.
And yet, in the midst of all that, the smallest shifts were the ones that stayed with me.
Like the way Evan stopped calling me “sis” when we were alone and serious.
Like the way he still used it in public because he knew exactly how much that amused me.
Like the way he never came back from Black Harbor without washing his hands before touching me, even when he was exhausted enough to barely stand.
Like the way he sat through one of my skin episodes one evening without letting me cling to him immediately, because he wanted to know whether I still came to him out of habit or because I wanted him specifically.
I stared at him for a long time.
Then I climbed into his lap, took his face in both hands, and said, “Don’t get arrogant.”
His mouth curved.
But his eyes—those dark, dangerous eyes that had once looked up at me from the sidewalk—turned frighteningly bright.
“You chose me,” he said.
I kissed him until he stopped talking.
Some time later, Julia dropped by uninvited with desserts, kicked off her shoes, and ended up stretched across my couch like she lived there.
Evan came in from outside, saw her, and sighed without a word.
Julia grinned. “Still possessive?”
“Yes.”
“Still pretending you aren’t?”
He looked at her flatly. “No.”
That made her laugh so hard she nearly spilled tea.
Honestly, there were moments when the three of us together felt absurdly balanced. As if the world, for all its bad writing, had stumbled accidentally into something almost warm.
The comments seemed to agree.
This weird trio is healing me.
Girls, terrifying boyfriend, revenge, power, emotional damage. Perfect.
He’s not just a terrifying boyfriend. He’s her terrifying boyfriend.
I had no argument for that.
That night, after Julia left, Evan carried me upstairs without being asked.
When he set me down on the bed, I traced the old scar at his side—the one he got the day his father died.
“Does it still hurt?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Good,” I said lightly. “A reminder.”
He looked at me for a long moment. “Of what?”
“That next time you want to impress me by bleeding, I’ll make your life miserable.”
His expression changed.
Softened.
Then he bent and kissed the scar on my shoulder, the one I never let anyone mention from when I was twelve.
“Then I’ll stay alive,” he said. “For both of us.”
It was such a simple sentence.
I still remember exactly how it sounded.