I never got the chance to introduce Lucy to Mom. I would’ve, I swear I would’ve, and it wasn’t because I didn’t believe that she would keep my secrets. While she was alive, she kept all of them, but in Harmony Heights, it’s hard to keep any at all. If Mom knew about Lucy, it wouldn’t be long before Jack found it, and I… I couldn’t do it.
I always knew I was fucked-up in the head. If all of the times I thought about just blowing my brains out weren’t enough of a clue to that, it was in how I thought it was a good idea to finally introduce Lucy to Mom by fucking her in her room, with her urn right there.
Now? I blow a kiss to the brass urn that I forced Jack to buy—because, if it was up to him, he would’ve left her in the box that her cremated remains were returned to us from the funeral home in—and go after Lucy, pausing just long enough to grab my jeans and stab my feet through the legs.
I can’t stop myself. Leaving the button and zipper undone, I shove my dick inside of my jeans and head toward the guest bathroom. I tell myself not to take it personally when I see that the door is closed, that the water is already running. Fuck that. It feels like, in the aftermath, all she wants to do is wash me off of her skin.
And that’s why I take one look at the doorknob and leave it alone. I don’t go in after her, not when she obviously doesn’t want me to.
Instead, cursing under my breath, I move past the door and keep going.
Apart from my bedroom,my private gym is the only other room in the penthouse that feels honest. That feels likeme.
It isn’t much. The Fortress has a full, state-of-the-art commercial gym for Order members, but I’m not in the mood to walk in there and have every fucking Owed fawning over the King. I have everything I need up here. A heavy, punching bag. A weight bend. Free weights. Medicine balls and a jump rope.
I’m good.
Today, I target my old friend: the punching bag. Usually, I stop to tape up my hands, but I don’t bother. Why, when the only reason to do so would be to protect my knuckles, my wrists, the small bones of my hands?
I deserve the pain. I deserve tobleed.
The first punch snaps the chain tight. The second splits the skin across my knuckles, just like I expected.
By the fifth, blood slicks my fingers. That doesn’t stop me. I keep hitting, the bag swinging wildly from the force of my punches. The pain is sharp, yet simple. There’s more when the sweat dripping from my brow stings my eyes. I spare a moment to brush my damp curls out of my face, staining my hair with fresh blood, then return to beating the leather.
My breath comes out in labored pants. I take a moment to steady it, sucking some of the blood from my knuckles. The metallic taste is familiar. Grounding. For a moment, the urge to continue beating the shit of the bag fades into an urge to grab it, hold it tight, and rest my sweaty forehead against it.
And that’s when I hear her.
“Dallas?”
Fuck.
I’m a mess. Wearing only my half-zipped jeans and blood everywhere, I’m a goddamn mess. I try to wipe the blood on my pants, but all that does it smear it all over, making it worse. Running my fingers through my hair, trying to at least get rid of the red there, I take a deep breath and turn around.
It’s Lucy. Of course it’s Lucy. She’s standing in the doorway, freshly dressed in a cream-colored sweater, a pair of dark brown leggings, her damp hair falling in ringlets around her frowning face.
“You’re bleeding.”
I shove my ruined hands into the back pockets of my jeans as I fall back on my heels. “Didn’t tape up. My mistake, but I’m fine.”
The look she gives me calls me on my bullshit. “You’re not fine. You’reangry.”
I am. At myself, not her, but how can I tell her the reason why when, to do so, I’d have to admit that I’ve been lying to her all along?
When I don’t say anything, she hesitantly enters the weight room. It’s gotta reek like sweat and testosterone, but she doesn’t give any indication that it disgusts her as she moves over to me.
“About earlier…”
I exhale roughly. “I’m sorry. I… shit, Luce. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I don’t blame you for needing to get away from me.” She’s so close, I want to touch her, I want to stroke her cheek, I want to pluck one of her ringlets… but if I did, she’d see how much I fucked up my knuckles, and I don’t want her to. “That’s not why I’m pissed.”
She knows why. “You told me your name was Julian.”
Lucy…
“But then I used your name, and you acted like I stabbed you or something. Now, I know it’s not your nickname, but I didn’t expect that reaction at all.”
Of course not. And I should’ve known better than to let my own issues affect Lucy when my Dandelion is already dealing with so much, but I… I lost control.
