We cut through a dirt path in the wheat field, leading us towards a small Kansas town.

Notifications ping and buzz on multiple phones. Cell signal must’ve returned. As we walk, I check my texts since I sent one to my father this morning. The first time I’ve texted him in years.

I said: if you’re harassing Maximoff in the belief I’ll return to medicine, tell me now. We can talk about it. It took me an hour just constructing that text. Because my first draft said fuck you.

He hasn’t replied yet.

I pocket my phone, and Maximoff slows next to me.

Wheat brushes our arms on either side of us. I hold his gaze for a long beat. Like me, he’s not afraid of the fog or the dark. I wouldn’t care if he were. But there’s something extremely fucking sexy about this shared fearlessness.

I begin to smile, and I increase my pace. Seeing if he’ll keep up. His lengthy stride instantly matches mine, and soon, we’ve added plenty of distance between the others and us.

His forest-greens flit to the Philadelphia Eagles hoodie I’m wearing. Shit, I love being his first. Even for the simple, little things. He’s been basically eye-fucking me for the past hour, but more sensual than a rough, quick fuck.

If eyes could make love, his eyes would be making love to me.

Maximoff catches sight of my growing smile, and he rakes a hand through his thick hair. “I don’t know why the fuck you’re smiling.”

“Sure you don’t.” I tilt my head at him, my gaze descending his build. “It smells like you.”

Maximoff rubs his mouth, then jaw, trying to hide a smile. “Fantastic, I’m assuming.”

“Settle down, wolf scout. There’s not a merit badge for smelling good.”

He almost laughs. “You’re admitting I smell good?” He touches his heart. “It’s almost like you’re obsessed with me.”

I nod a couple times. “Man, it’s cute how badly you want the tables to turn.”

“They have,” he combats.

I swing my head from side-to-side, considering for a half second, about to answer but my phone buzzes. A new text.

I check.

Call me tomorrow. – Dad

Curt, to the point. And also vague as shit. I flash the message to Maximoff.

His face is stoic. “Calling him may not help. I feel like you shouldn’t reach out unless it’s about you and him, not the stalker.”

I shake my head. “There is no me and him. There hasn’t been for over three years.” To protect Maximoff, I’d call my father, but I also don’t want to give him the advantage.

I message him: you can talk to me over text.

Just as I send it, the wheat field ends, and we kick up dirt as we walk forward. I change my mind: this isn’t a town. It’s three shingled buildings, two of which look closed. Light flickers in the windows of one.

All people vacated for the night.

I whistle, and the wind carries the sound.

Maximoff gives me a look to follow him. He’s on a mission, and I’m not leaving his side. I sense where he’s headed in an instant.

Signs swing on each building: Lucille’s Drugstore, Antiques & Brass, and Savory Eatery with an additional sign that reads, fortuneteller inside!

Guess which is the only one open.

Maximoff climbs the wooden slatted stairs to the restaurant. Blue paint peels off the old door. I catch his bicep as he reaches for the copper knob.

“You’re not going in first.” I’m not trying to one-up him. He can lead the pack, but I’m still on-duty. And this is still an unsecured location.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” he retorts. “Whoever’s inside this restaurant has probably never heard of Loren Hale, let alone his son.”

“Sure, but they could also jump you, and then what?” I’m not backing down.

“They could also jump you.” He’s not backing down either.

“I’m a trained fighter.”

“And I fight a lot,” he combats.

My brows spike. “I have a gun.”

“I have a switchblade.”

I roll my eyes and let out a laugh. “You’re so stubborn.”

He hones in on my lips and piercings. “Same to you, man.” His sudden fuck me eyes are killing me. My muscles burn, and veins pulse in my dick.

I watch him eye-fuck me, his forest-greens traveling lower, lower…I smile. “You’ll see my cock later, don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t, thanks,” he says dryly, but his breath shallows. His body tenses. Fuck me fuck me is the predominant plea, request and sentiment.

And damn, I want to fulfill that. But we both acknowledge place, time: Kansas past midnight with nine other people.

Speaking of those people, they walk towards us, and our heads turn.

“Fortuneteller,” Donnelly reads the sign. “Dope.”

Maximoff ends up holding the door open, and we watch each person file inside one-by-one. I hang back with him. Omega goes first, canvassing the restaurant, then their clients.

When my boyfriend and I enter together, I scan the eclectic decorations. Lava lamps sit on the scratched bar, orbs inside fishnets dangle from wooden rafters, and an old jukebox plays Johnny Cash. There are only six wooden tables, the place small.

And empty.

Akara taps a bell on the bar.

“Anyone here?!” Sulli calls, noticing a kitchen door, and it whips open.

A withered, gray-haired waitress glides out, tying an apron around her waist. “Hey there. We usually only get truckers around this hour. Take a seat wherever you like.” She gestures to the tables. “My name’s Patricia. I’ll be serving you.”

Maximoff was right. She doesn’t recognize the famous ones, and I doubt she’d care if we introduced them as A-list celebrities.

We all push a couple tables together. I upright a ketchup bottle that knocks over.

Chairs creak as people begin to sit. I choose a spot at the end, and Maximoff takes a seat beside me. Oscar and Jane in front of us. Seating arrangement isn’t that random. We’re the furthest away from Thatcher and Charlie.

Patricia plants her hands on the table. Bent towards Jack. “We only have three things on the menu, boys.” She notices Jane and Sulli. “And ladies. Barbecue chicken, our nightly stew, and sour cream and raisin pie. Only one beer on draft, and we have some cold Fizz drinks.”

“I’ll try the pie,” Sulli says first.

Everyone else orders the barbecue chicken, sodas and water. We begin talking about music as “Folsom Prison Blues” starts booming. Then beads smack an entryway, a figure slinking dramatically through like she’s auditioning to play Madonna.

I balance back on two chair legs, thoroughly entertained.

“What the…” Beckett trails off, his brows cinched.

Smoky purple makeup shadows her eyes, and she aims for our table.

Patricia motions to the woman. “This is Fontina the Fortunate, my sister-in-law. All readings complimentary with your meals. Good luck, and I’ll be back with your drink and food.”

Oscar mutters to me, “Yeah, I’m not feeling this place.”

“Good luck?” Jane repeats and exchanges a wary look with Maximoff.

The other end of the table is quiet and curious. Mine is about to self-eject. Minus me. This shit is harmless.

But I understand how protective Jane and Maximoff are towards their cousins and siblings. I’m sure they don’t want a stranger telling them that they’re about to die. Or that their future is bleak and miserable.

Fontina slinks around us, her manicured nails skating across the backs of our chairs. “I feel a strong energy in the room.”

Sitting backwards on his chair, Donnelly smokes another cigarette. “It’s me, right? I know I’ve got some strong ass energy.”

“That’s just your breath,” Oscar quips.

Donnelly blows him a middle-finger kiss.

“No, no, it’s not you.” Fontina circles the table. Eyelids hovering closed, she sucks in a breath through her nostrils. “It’s here.” She waves a hand towards my end. “No, wait…” She wavers.

I can’t help but fucking smile.

Patricia carries out our drinks, setting them down, and once she leaves, Fontina reanimates and places a hand on Sulli’s head.

Maximoff goes rigid.

Sulli tries not to laugh.

“You, dear,” Fontina muses.

“Yeah?” Sulli says.

“I sense…strong feelings around you. A destiny that you cannot control.”

Vague.

Beckett makes a that’s utter bullshit face.

Sulli contemplates this hard. “In what fucking way? Like swimming or…?”

“Love,” Fontina says.

“But I’ve never been in love,” Sulli mentions.

“I know, dear.”

“Because she just told you,” Beckett says pointedly, and Charlie smiles, halfway slouched in his chair.

Fontina ignores him and puts another hand on Sulli’s head. “You’re a determined spirit, a go-getter, and many admire that…but there’s a man who protects you most strongly…” Her hands drift to Sulli’s cheeks, and Sulli stiffens, about 70% uncomfortable. “And you will fall—”

“No one’s fucking falling,” Maximoff interjects, forearms on the table to have a better view of his cousin.

Fontina lets go of her and circles the table, and Sulli mouths, thanks to Maximoff. Grateful for redirecting the spotlight.

I still teeter on my chair legs and fold a straw paper.

“You two…” Fontina muses, her hand hovering above my head and Maximoff’s. “Powerful forces…connect you two in this life…and your past lives…”

A smile edges across my mouth, and I ask, “How much did he love me in our past lives?”

She sucks in a breath, channeling.

Maximoff blinks at me like I’ve asked a question that just sent him to hell. Also, he’s struggling not to look at my lips.

“…great, great love,” she muses. “It was…always you.”

Maximoff is almost flushed, his body unmoving. Rigid. He tunes out the audience of his family and security, and he stares at the table.

Wolf scout.

Normally he has a comeback, but I can tell he’s lost for a retort. I drop my chair legs and discreetly put a hand on his knee.

He’s still a marble statue.

“That’s beautiful,” Jane says, “and you can read them without tarot cards?”

“Mmmhhhmm,” Fontina answers. “I have an intuitive soul.”

Maximoff takes a swig of water and says genuinely, “That’s interesting.”

Fontina smiles, but then she frowns deeply and seizes my gaze. “You’re looking for someone, aren’t you?”

The air deadens. I’m not even sure if I believe this shit.

“Weird,” Donnelly says.

I’m still actively looking for multiple people. The stalker, the leaker—and my phone suddenly vibrates in my pocket. I reach for my cell.

“You’ll find them soon, very soon…” Fontina trails off as the waitress waltzes to our table with a large tray of food. The fortuneteller says silkily, “Enjoy your meal.” Then she leaves through the beaded entryway.

Jane asks the waitress, “How accurate is your sister-in-law with her readings?”

“I’d say about half is complete bull.” Patricia wipes her hands on her apron. “But she slides some truth in there every now and then. Need anything else?”

I tune out everyone and unlock my phone to a new text.

Harassment is a strong word. – Dad

My jaw muscle twitches. I text: What word would you use then? I send the message.

Maximoff hasn’t touched his food yet. “Bad news?”

“No news,” I say under my breath. “He’s being a vague asshole.” My attention drifts as Oscar pops a metal tin. “You seriously brought Audrey’s cookies here?” I didn’t even notice him carrying them.

“Yeah,” Oscar says. “We didn’t know if anything would be open, Redford. I was thinking ahead.”

My phone rattles on the table.

I would call it being proactive, productive, and professional. I shouldn’t be the primary care physician to your boyfriend. It’s a better role for you. Your talent shouldn’t be wasted. Do what you’re meant to do. – Dad

My nose flares. I grind my teeth, irritation crawling down my spine. I can’t discern whether he’s behind the Instagram account or the leak. He’s only referencing how he’s no longer Maximoff’s doctor. That incident alone sets me on an aggravated edge I rarely near.

I’m not replying back anytime soon. I pass my phone to Maximoff. Wanting to keep him in the loop. And I look across at Oscar, who eats a heart-shaped cookie whole.

“How’s the cookie, Oliveira?”

“Perfection.” He picks another one, and his eyes narrow at the icing. He goes very still, serious. More methodical.

Something’s not right.

I reach for the tin and sift through the cookies. Pink icing decorates half of them with two words: I’m sorry.

“I don’t understand it,” Oscar tells me. Neither do I.

“Did she get glasses?” I ask him. “Maybe she finally realized you’re not hot enough for special deliveries—”

He aggressively chucks a cookie at Maximoff, who catches it easily.

My brows arch at Oscar. “Fuck you,” I say and add a middle finger.

Oscar cracks a short-lived smile. He watches Maximoff inspect the I’m sorry cookie, then Jane sees them.

“I’ll call my sister.” Jane starts dialing a number, and Maximoff stares off in thought. The other end of the table is discussing the best barbecue they’ve ever had. I throw a wadded napkin at Akara.

He dodges. “Hey—”

“Catch.” I toss him a cookie.

“Fuck, are they moldy?” Sulli wonders, noticing us. “That’s the worst.”

“No, they’re not moldy,” Jane replies, phone to her ear.

Akara flashes the cookie to everyone.

Thatcher sets down a steak knife and zeroes in on Oscar. “Did you do something where she’d need to apologize?”

“No,” Oscar says seriously. “I don’t really talk to her. She sends me cookies, I eat them. That’s about it.”

Charlie scrapes his chair back, capturing everyone’s attention. “My little sister is fascinated with boys. But she crushes on ones she knows she can’t and will never have. Because she doesn’t actually want to see it through.” He stands and saunters over to Jane. “Audrey just likes the idea of love more than the reality.”

“Oui,” Jane agrees. “She borrowed all my Outlander novels a year ago, and I haven’t seen them since. She loves a good romance.”

“Fictional romance,” Beckett emphasizes, rising to join his brother and sister, and Jane stands too. I take note of those three, the Cobalts, on their feet together.

Admittedly, I may not be that partial to the Cobalts, but I can tell when they sense something’s “afoot” in their family. Standing upright, their unity carries a profound strength that clenches the air. They may as well have buckled their armor and sheathed their weapons.

If I sense this, then so does Maximoff. He stares at his cousins, then at the phone. Weight strains the restaurant.

“Everyone quiet,” Jane says as the line connects. She presses speakerphone. “Audrey, I know it’s late, but Oscar just opened your cookie tin. He’s next to me, and you’re on speaker. We just wanted to know if everything’s okay.”

I hear sniffling. On the verge of tears.

Maximoff edges closer to the table. “Are you home?”

“Yes, hi Moffy,” Audrey says softly. “I’m in my bedroom. I’ve grounded myself for eternity.” Her whimsical voice sounds like she’s starring in Little Women or Tuck Everlasting. “It’s what I deserve most of all. Who else is with you?”

“Everyone,” Jane says. “I can hand the phone over to Oscar if you’d like.”

“No, this is better.” She sighs morosely, then she sighs again, her voice quivering.

Donnelly winces, hating when the young kids cry. It’s not my favorite thing either. I spin a saltshaker and listen to the Cobalts.

“Audrey,” Charlie says. “What are you apologizing for?”

Her voice cracks. “I’m so sorry. I am.” More tears, this time a sob.

Beckett whispers to Jane, “Take it off speaker.”

Before Jane moves, Audrey blubbers, “I did it.”

My breath gives, and I must be too fixated on the stalker because my mind immediately goes there. It’s fucking irrational. Maximoff’s thirteen-year-old cousin isn’t creating death and murder images of him.

“Did what?” Jane asks, wide-eyed.

“I’m the one who shared the video,” she says in a tearful confession.

The Hot Santa video.

Beckett shakes his head repeatedly, arms outstretched. Like that’s not right. It can’t be his little sister, but she just admitted to it. Charlie softens his gaze on Beckett.

And then Jane motions for everyone to remain quiet, but Thatcher and Akara stand and pull out their phones. Texting the security team.

Donnelly barrels forward, face in hands. Yeah, his precious Cobalts fucked up. Guess what, they’re all human.

“I don’t understand, Audrey,” Jane says. “Why would you do that? You knew it was private.”

“I didn’t intend for the press to have it,” she cries softly. “All I ever wanted was for Emma Rodwin to believe that Oscar existed. She said I was lying, and I’m not a liar.” She cries harder but still speaks clearly. “When Beckett sent the video in the group text, I only thought of what it’d feel like for Emma to know the truth. And I copied the video to a flash drive to share with her.”

Charlie says, “And Emma sent the video to the press.”

Beckett relaxes. “You didn’t actually leak the video, Audrey. It was your friend.”

She sniffs. “I’m an adjacent party to this treachery, you have to realize.”

This is exactly why I’m fortunate to never be on a Cobalt family getaway. She just turned thirteen in January, and she speaks like she’s fifty. And this is just one Cobalt. When all seven are together, it’s an instant migraine. Stick me with the weirdo Hales any day. Fuck, I actually miss Luna right now.

“You didn’t,” Beckett says. “We can’t trust anyone but family and security. Lesson learned, and now you move on.”

“I can’t,” she cries. “What if I feel like I’ve done the worst thing a person could ever do?”

“You haven’t murdered anyone,” Oscar notes, cutting into his chicken.

Audrey blubbers more apologies to Oscar, and most of us start to relax. It’s better that it’s Audrey and not someone from security. As much as I dislike Epsilon, I wouldn’t want them to hurt the families. But I wish the leaker and the stalker had been the same person.

Then I could’ve closed the book to the other one, too.

“I’m deeply, deeply sorry,” Audrey says with a hiccup. “To everyone, I’ve failed the family. I should be banished.”

Beckett and Charlie smile.

“We won’t banish you until sunup,” Charlie teases.

“I’ll make all my amends before then.” She sniffs, sounding better.

“Have you told Mom and Dad?” Beckett asks.

Audrey sighs. “No…Mother and Father will be so disappointed. I couldn’t call anyone. I thought the cookies would do…but I should’ve called. I’m weak, so weak.” I imagine her throwing herself on her bed in a dramatic heap.

Half of us try not to laugh.

“You’re not weak,” Maximoff says, eyeing the phone. “You’re a Cobalt.”

“Toujours,” Charlie says, and I can translate that French word: always.

Audrey sniffs one last time.

“You have to tell Mom and Dad,” Jane urges. “Tonight. Wake them.”

“Will you throw flowers at my funeral?” Audrey asks.

Jane begins to smile. “Only roses. And you, mine.”

“Of course, sister.” She exhales, the conversation between the Cobalt girls weird as shit and slightly fascinating.

“Bye, Audrey.”

“Bye, Jane.”

They hang up.

Donnelly has unburied his face. “I love Cobalts.” He smirks.

“That’s called blind, stupid loyalty,” I say. “One of them may’ve just fucked up our jobs.”