But what if he goes too far one day? What if I wake up and realize I let my son get close to a man who doesn’t draw the same lines I do?
Or worse… what if I’m already too far gone to care?
He says he protects people. That he only hurts the ones who deserve it. But that’s a line you draw in sand, not stone.
What scares me isn’t that he’s dark.
It’s when he looks at me with those eyes like I’m the only thing anchoring him to something decent…
And all I can think about is how badly I want Hex beside me today. Not just in spirit, but standing next to me, hand in mine. Even if he won’t be. Even if whatever’s weighing on him keeps him away.
A car horn startles me. I blink and realize I’ve let the gap grow too wide between me and the car in front. I idle forward and spot Bash’s teacher at the curb with the line of kids starting to emerge. My heart gives a little jump.
But she doesn’t wave for Bash to come forward.
Instead, she steps up to my window, her expression polite but puzzled.
I roll it down. “Hey, everything okay?”
“Oh, yes,” she says with a small smile. “I’m just surprised to see you, Ms. Hawthorne. Sebastian has already been picked up.”
I blink. “What?”
“One of his approved pickups came through the line. Demi Kincaid? She had her ID, and we checked the list. You wrote her down as authorized.”
My blood runs cold.
“Demi?” I repeat, more to myself than to her. “She picked him up?”
The teacher nods, trying to assure me this is all routine with an all too big smile. “Yes, a few minutes ago. ID matched, everything looked great.”
That doesn’t make sense. Demi’s never picked Bash up. She’s only on the emergency pick up list in case I’m with a client or Andrew can’t get away from the dealership. She wouldn’t even know how the car line works without calling me first in a panic, asking where to go, what lane to be in, how to not piss off the line monitors.
Something’s wrong.
My fingers fumble with my phone. I scroll fast, my hands shaking now, until I land on a photo of Demi from her birthday last year. She’s mid-laugh, one eye half-closed, holding a mimosa. Not flattering, but unmistakably her.
I flip the phone toward the teacher. “Is this who picked him up?”
She leans in. Then her face shifts.
“No,” she says slowly. “That’s not her. The woman who picked him up was blonde. But her ID said Demi Kincaid.” She doubles down, acting as if she didn’t just make a colossal fucking mistake.
The words don’t compute.
All I hear is…blonde.
My lungs constrict for a second as if they forgot how to function.
My heart is hammering so loud I can barely hear her when she says, “Do you want me to call the school resource officer?”
“No,” I say too quickly. My voice is tight, too bright. “It’s probably just a misunderstanding. Demi must’ve dyed her hair or something. I’m sure it’s fine.”
I give her the best fake smile I can muster and roll the window up before she can ask another question.
My fingers are already moving, but I don’t call Demi.
I call Hex.
