Jackson’s P.O.V.
I stuck close to Eluna as much as I could, dodging playful elbows from Blade and dodging questions like
“So what are your intentions with our sister?” with the grace of a man who knew he was vastly outnumbered. Still, when I helped Eluna carry plates to the table, and she whispered,
“You doing OK?”—I smiled and said,
“Best I’ve ever been.”
Because I wasn’t just surviving here. I was falling. Hard. And I wasn’t about to let a few overprotective brothers stop me. I had played sold-out arenas. I’d been mobbed by fans, hounded by paparazzi, and grilled by late-night talk show hosts with smiles too white to be natural. Hell, I had even survived an overly aggressive raccoon situation on a tour bus once. So, I figured I could handle anything the Miller family threw my way
