She holds up her hands. "Fawn, please," she says, desperation sweeping through her tone. "I was never any good at this. You were my first foster daughter. I’m better with boys. I'm glad you are well.”
Is that true?
All I wanted was a mother.
I signal the henchmen with a nod, and they stop mid-stride, still ready, eyes holding my foster mother in place.
“Can I have your phone number?” she asks.
My heart twists.
I want to believe her, to trust this. Everyone deserves a second chance, like the butterflies, but my body feels like liquid lead is being poured down my spine.
“We can meet for coffee,” she adds. “My treat?"
I look her up and down—she looks smaller, plain, a little weak. I’m not afraid of her anymore, and her opinion of me is meaningless—it is. I don’t care about what she thinks, not at all. I don’t need her to say she’s proud of what I’ve accomplished on my own, or recognise what a wonderful mother I am.
Don’t need any of that…
Ugh,it’d be nice to hear.
I square my shoulders. “I don't need treats from you.”
"Please,” she repeats.
Fuck.
I chew my lower lip and assess her. This feels wrong, but… She is the closest thing I have to a mother. "I'm not allowed to give my phone number out,” I say honestly.
Her brows weave. "What?"
“You can call the house.”
"You don't have a private mobile?" Eleanor's voice drips with judgment.
"I do, but it's…" I fumble on the words she'll never understand. "Not for you. It's for Sir"—I clear my throat—"I mean, Clay."
She scoffs. "Clay Butcher doesn't allow you to talk on the phone to people besides him?"
"I didn't say that."
"That is very controlling, Fawn. Toxic masculinity is not good for your sons?—"
"Boom fucking boom." Her sentence cuts off when Bronson takes up the space beside me, his massive shadow falling over us like nightfall.
Eleanor drags her wide eyes up all six-foot-five inches of tattooed Bronson Butcher—from his steel-toed boots to his broad shoulders that strain against Italian leather—andswallows over a lump in her throat so tangible I can see it beneath her neck.
"Time’s up, sweetheart," he continues, his voice rumbling. "It's been swell." He looks at me, disturbingly animated. "Hasn't it, Sister Fawn? Just swell." Now he's looking at her. "Quick like a little bunny, off you hop."
"S-stay safe." Eleanor barely gets the words out as she turns and walks away, her sensible heels clicking frantically against the pavement as she peers over her shoulder at us.
I watch her leave.
Then she's out of sight.
I exhale hard, my shoulders dropping inches, turning to Bronson, who has resumed his budding florist hobby, his tattooed fingers delicately picking blood-red roses and making the newly returned stall lady blush from neck to cheek.
"Quick like a bunny?" I ask, cocking a brow.
