The dream fadesat the edges.
I wake up with a slow, burning ache, as if some vital part of me has been torn. I want her to help me learn this—mummy thing. Though she herself had no idea how to do it. I get that not everyone takes being a mum to this level of obsession, but… they should. And if they grew up without one, they’d realise how important that presence is.
‘They inherited their teeth—you sharpened yours on concrete.’My mum never said this to me. I guess it came from my own imagination. These aremywords.
Lying on my back, I blink up at the ceiling tiles, at grid-like patterns on the hospital ceiling. I don’t need to look around toknow Clay isn’t here. I feel that hollow space, a part of me sucked out by the missing gravity of Clay Butcher.
There are two cots opposite me, encasing my sleeping babies. They were drugged, but their vitals are fine now, and they’re sleeping it all off. Luca is etched with a scowl even in slumber, and Ash has his mouth open, perhaps singing in a dream choir. Their tiny chests rise and fall easily. With every breath, it occurs to me they are real, alive, and present in a way my mother will never be again. She did that to herself.
She transferred her trauma to me; I will not be doing that to them.
Nurses have been coming and going all night, performing their ‘checks’—studying the monitors and the charts—and then leaving silently. I wonder if they know who we are, if the name “Butcher” means anything in this ward.
I suspect it does.
After everything that happened yesterday, I imagine the entire hospital knows. The one time I left the room last night, to walk up and down the corridor and stretch my stiff legs, there were henchmen in the halls. I can always spotCosa Nostrasoldiers because their suits are all-black, luxurious, and tailored. A direct representation of the man they work for.
I stretch out on the small hospital bed. My body aches everywhere, all my muscles bruised, my skin tender. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, I can feel the car crash. With a groan, I try to sit up, but the effort brings a wave of nausea.
My head pounds with the memory of the crash. Of the glass shattering in slow motion, of the bite of the seat belt across my chest, of the world spinning until it suddenly stopped.
I swallow hard, trying to ground myself in the present. I focus on the twins. They're sleeping as if nothing has happened. As if danger and violence aren’t written into theirveins. I don’t want that for them. I want to believe it’s possible to inherit only the good parts of your parents, but I’m not naive enough to think that’s how the world works—not anymore.
Luca stirs, grunting, then immediately falls back into a deeper, more petulant sleep.
“Hey, girlie, you’re awake.”
My eyes widen. “Xander!”
Pushing up to my elbows with a wince, I scan the room, my eyes landing on the handsome young man to my left. He’s sitting on a chair, wearing dark jeans, a blue t-shirt, and a grey hoodie. His dark hair is a little too long, covering his top lashes, and his jawline is shadowed with stubble.
Before I can say ‘you’re here’ or ‘I missed you,’ my vision blurs behind the bite of tears. “Welcome home,” I manage to say, but my throat is thick.
Xander quickly crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed, and opens his arms. “Get in here.”
I melt into him, taking fistfuls of his shirt. I hum. Warmer and smaller than Max, and I feel as though I can hold on, gripping him, as long as I wish. Forever, even. If Max is a wall of muscles, Xander is a trampoline, taut and fun and always returning what you throw at him.
He rocks me gently.
I try not to cry.
“I came straight away,” he sighs, voice muffled by my hair. “Left Kaya in London. I’m so fucking sorry that you had to go through all of this.”
I nod against him and just— just hold him.
Be brave, Fawn.
Don’t lose control yet.
Then, I sit back to take him in. He is wearing that boy-next-door charm, with his floppy hair and bright blue eyes. He grins, saying, “You’re fucking amazing, you know that?”
“I don’t feelamazing.”
He grimaces, eyes lingering on a spot by my hairline, reminding me of my head wound. “You stealing my style?”
My lips pull to one side, half smile, half disapproval. Last year, he was diagnosed with a serious brain disease following years of head trauma from boxing. “Don’t joke about head injuries, Xander Butcher. Not you.”
He laughs. “We match!”
