After he disposed of my mother, he never saw her again.
He died early. Broken. Shattered.
I’m not him.
But right now, the rage feels familiar. Too familiar.
I want to hit something. Wreck something.
And I don’t dare see Seraphina when I’m this close to the edge.
Instead I pull out my phone and thumb to a number I haven’t needed to use in a very long time.
One ring.
Two.
Then it’s answered.
“Hawkeye.”
Chapter Eighteen
Seraphina
Before I even step out of my car in the parking lot of Poison Girl, I do the responsible thing.
I check my bank balance.
There’s a pending deposit. I close my eyes and sigh, thanking the gods of payroll. My first check from Blackwell Enterprises is dangling in cyberspace like a carrot I can’t quite reach yet. But with the money I still have and the promise of more to come, I have enough to splurge on the seven-dollar wine tonight.
As I make my way to the patio, I grin.
I’m living in the lap of luxury. Then I laugh at that idea. But the truth is, I even have enough to split a pizza if Lila and Tasha are hungry. Tonight I don’t have to watch others eat while my tummy grumbles.
Poison Girl is already buzzing.
A tangle of string lights swings in the faint breeze, casting warm gold across mismatched chairs and scuffed wooden tables. There’s the scent of spilled beer, grilling burgers, and someone’s peach vape cloud. Montrose in all its messy, unapologetic glory.
I don’t see either of my friends yet, so I search out one of the few empty tables. I slide into the seat and let the stress bleed out of my spine one vertebra at a time.
God, do I need this break.
Being with Xavier is always…a lot.
But right now it feels more intense than it ever has.
Saturday evening was pure magic, from the sexy way he’d made me come undone, then stayed the night and took me to breakfast the next morning. Even though I didn’t want it to matter to me as much as it did, the things he did to me were the stuff of dreams. He treats me like a princess in public and worships me when we’re alone.
All of Sunday, while we were apart, I’d wanted to pinch myself to be sure it was real.
And yet, the man who returned to my apartment a few hours later wasn’t the same as the one who’d taken me to brunch.
He smiled when he came to pick me up for dinner, but there’d been a broodiness about him. And when he refreshed my wine, I noticed his knuckles were bruised.
Scowling, I’d asked him about it. He said something about needing to burn off energy after running into Lane Marchand and learning the man had submitted his own bid for Lockhart, putting even more pressure on Blackwell. On us.
He admitted that some of the board members had been making comments about the picture with Bianca.
