Grace finishes her coffee before saying, “Harold and I spent our lives working to keep our children out of harm’s way. That included staying away from places like Mayhem.” Here we fucking go… “We thought they’d be safe in Brighton. We believed the people here are good and the people in Mayhem are…not.” Thinking I’m about to be judged for who I am and where I come from, I’m confused when Grace extends her arm toward me and opens her hand, wanting me to take it. I do, fully prepared to yank it away. “We were wrong. Discord and Jester and Crow are good men.Youare a good man. It’s a pity it took my husband being shot for me to realize our mistake.”
Her praise digs into my brain. It works itself in so deep that it somehow reaches my black, husked-out heart. It glides along my soul, and for a moment, the burden of my childhood eases.
But only for one glorious moment…but I absorb as much of it as I can before the ugliness comes crashing back.
I pull my hand away. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew me.” I won’t pretend to be something I’m not—not even to gain Grace Ward’s approval.
Grace raises a single brow. “Havoc, my darling, we are our own worst critic.”
In most cases, she’s correct, but not with me.
If she knew half of what I’ve done. A quarter of the people I’ve hurt.
“Let’s agree to disagree,” I say, being diplomatic.
Kerri nudges me. “There’s no winning an argument with my mother.”
“No, there’s not,” Grace agrees. “Now, back to my original request.”
Every muscle in my body goes taut. “Refresh my memory.”
As if I don’t remember exactly what she’s referring to.
“Finish what you were going to say to my daughter.”
I could make up some bullshit, but Grace seems shrewd enough to see through it and call me on it. It’s awkward as hell to put my feelings out into the universe. But if I want to become a part of Kerri’s future, I need to make this concession—and speak from my soul.
When I answer, I look straight at Kerri. “I’m here because I’d rather be with your daughter than anywhere else, even if it means giving up Mayhem.”
There.
I said it.
Now let the words fall where they will.
23
KERRI
Havoc is here.
In my bedroom.
But we’re not alone if I count the horde of butterflies beating their wings in my belly. Havoc, with his black hoodie, black jeans, black boots, and menacing disposition, is a contradiction among the pink frills. It’s downright comical how out of place he is in here, and when he strolls over to the mirror and examines the Polaroids taped to it, I bite back a cringe. Our lives have always been vastly different, but the dichotomy was never so glaring to me until this moment. It’s silly, I know, all things considered. And yet, there’s something about having this man in my bedroom that puts things in perspective.
The differences between our lives and personalities suddenly seem as subtle as a freight train slamming me in the face.
I can’t imagine what Havoc must think as he glimpses me during my younger years, carefree and laughing with my friends—some with Faith included. There I was, blind to the horrors outside the shelter of my bubble. Meanwhile, Havoc was already scarred from years of physical violence and witnessing his brother’s sexual abuse.
“You’re so fucking pretty when you laugh,” Havoc remarks while still hunched over as he studies the photos.
Well.
That answers my question of what he’s thinking. Then he stretches to his full height, and his presence dominates the space. He seems to suck most of the air from the room, leaving me lightheaded. I take a giant breath and hold it in my lungs, claiming the remaining oxygen. I roam my gaze over the chiseled features of Havoc’s beautifully rugged face, trying to embrace everything about this moment for fear it’s a fleeting one. That when he leaves on Friday, he’ll take my heart with him when he goes.
He steps toward me. “Since the day we met, I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I wondered what you were doing. Who you were with. But you know what I wondered about most, Duchess? What you do in this bed.” He lifts my hand. “What you do with this finger.” He doesn’t break eye contact with me when he licks the pad of my pointer finger. “And this finger.” Then he licks the pad of my middle finger. “How many times you slide them inside your pussy with my name on your lips.” He closes my hand, then runs his tongue along my knuckles. “Did you do that, Duchess? Did you fuck yourself, like I did, every time I thought about us being together?”
I nod at the raw truth laid bare before me.
