Total pages in book: 186
Estimated words: 176552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 883(@200wpm)___ 706(@250wpm)___ 589(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 883(@200wpm)___ 706(@250wpm)___ 589(@300wpm)
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.