Exhaling hard, I stifle my territorial nature. A Butcher trait that runs deep. I ram it down. For her. I lift my fingers to my lips, inhaling the scent of her pussy. Mine. Humming, I suck my fingers clean.
Fuck. I grab my phone to text Bronson, my fingers moving over the screen, and then hit send.
Clay: Fawn needs more females in her life. The next time you take her out, bring Cassidy.
My brother Max’s wife is the perfect companion for my little deer. She is gentle, like Fawn, honest and loyal, like Fawn, and she has a quirkiness that I believe my little deer will appreciate. She is also new to theCosa Nostra, has not seen what Shoshanna has, nor been beguiled by it like Jasmine has.
Yes, Cassidy is a good fit.
My brothertexts back.
Bronson: Maxipad doesn’t like sharing her. Might have to lady-nap her.
Clay: Don’t do anything stupid. Ask Cassidy. She will agree. Fawn needs fewer men around her.
Bronson: Ape Man beats chest.
Clay: As long as Ape Man brings Ballerina Girl next time he takes my fiancé shopping.
Bronson: No, mate. I’m not the Ape. You’re the ape. Like a caveman? I’m clearly the most emotionally evolved of us Butcher men. Maxipad has the evolutionary compassion of a stonefish, and you’re a fucking scorpion.
I reply with a scorpion emoji, and then set the phone on my desk, wondering what the Hell has gotten into me—using emojis? Such a weak form of communication.
Spending time with Fawn is my priority this afternoon. Only me. My eyes, not Bolton’s or any other man’s. I smooth down my tie and leave the office to gather my little deer and my sons for our outing—shopping.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
fawn
Our shopping trip was a success!I tapped my shiny black credit card with casual wealth still foreign to my fingertips while Sir tried on suits and ties and watched—dare I say,enjoyedhimself. Maybe even, hadfun.
The next morning I linger in the doorway to the kitchen, watching HJ coax dark coffee from the percolator.
My rat.
Butler.
Driver.
Friend.
His absence yesterday cut an odd hole in the day, a negative space I hadn't expected to notice. Strange how his silent presence has become so familiar and certain. A shadow at my back. Hands steady on the wheel. Shoulders squared against the wall. I open my mouth to speak to him sometimes without ever actually seeing him, just knowing he’s within earshot. So, while Clay Butcher is the beating heart, the soul, the salvation of my world, HJ is the quiet architecture.
He was the first person I met in this life. The first to feed me, to make me laugh with ease. In theCosa Nostramansion, my days have unfolded under his dutiful watch and within his protective shadow.
Look at him—he’s so cute. My forty-something year-old dapper dude in his black suit, sturdy figure, little microphone and earpiece thingy. At first sight, I recall comparing him to a butler on steroids. Still fits.
I wonder what he thought when he first saw me? A skinny girl with long ratty hair and a bump in her belly. I joked about ‘malnourished being the new sexy’ because I was so used to teasing myself—everyone else did. I just joined them.
He didn’t like that.
A plume of steam curls from his cup, which he cradles with both hands. At his feet, Luna rubs against his legs, leaving white fur on his hem. The house is smothered in her fur at the moment.
“What did you think of me the first time we met?” I ask. “I thoughtyoulooked like a butler on steroids.”
“I thought you’d been through it,” he says without looking up. “People get a certain look when their past haunts them. I saw it in your eyes. I thought, run, girl. Run now.”
“Run?” I echo.
