SASHA
The textbook lies open on my lap, but the words blur together as I stare at the same paragraph for the tenth time. It’s been a month since Dad died, and focusing on anything—especially Intro to Psychology—feels impossible. But I promised myself I'd try. Online classes are my only connection to the normal life I'd planned before everything fell apart.
I shift on the bed, adjusting my tank top where it's riding up. The clubhouse runs warm, and I've given up wearing anything but shorts and tanks when I'm in my room. I highlight a sentence about cognitive behavioral therapy, determined to absorb something today.
The door swings open without warning.
I jolt upright, heart hammering as Havoc fills the doorframe. His silver hair catches the light, and those intense blue eyes sweep across my exposed legs before snapping up to my face.
"Shit," he mutters. "Should've knocked."
"It's fine," I say, my voice embarrassingly breathless as I tug my top down. I'm suddenly painfully aware of how little I'm wearing. "Did you need something?"
He steps inside but leaves the door open, like he's ensuring propriety despite the hunger I sometimes catch in his gaze when he thinks I'm not looking.
"You good in here?" he asks, his deep voice carefully controlled. "Ruth said you skipped lunch."
"Just studying." I gesture weakly at my textbook. "Or trying to."
Havoc nods, his expression softening slightly. "Got something I wanna show you. Something of your mom's."
My heart skips. Every piece of my mother I discover feels like finding a missing part of myself. "What is it?"
"Not what. Who." A rare half-smile touches his lips, and it's devastating. "Ever hear your dad talk about Bluebell?"
I frown. "I don't think so. Who's Bluebell?"
"Your mom's horse." His eyes never leave mine. "She's been with Bone's cousin since your dad left. Thought you might wanna meet her."
A horse. My mother had a horse. Another piece of the woman I barely remember slides into place.
"When?" I ask, already setting my textbook aside.
"Now, if you want." He gestures at my outfit. "But you might wanna put on some actual clothes first."
My cheeks burn hot with embarrassment. I manage a quick nod, unable to form a coherent response.
"I'll wait outside," Havoc says, stepping back into the hallway. "Take your time."
The door clicks shut, and I press my palms against my flaming cheeks. God, what is wrong with me? My father died a month ago, and here I am getting flustered over his best friend—a man more than twice my age. I shouldn't want him to look at me. I shouldn't feel this electric current whenever he enters a room.
But I do.
I toss the psychology textbook aside and slide off the bed, heading to the small dresser that now holds my clothes. My fingers hesitate over a pair of jean shorts, then move to a pair of loose-fitting jeans instead. Something unrevealing.
Ever since I arrived at the clubhouse, I've noticed Havoc's eyes lingering when he thinks I'm not paying attention. Those intense blue eyes always track my movements, occasionally dropping to my legs or the curve of my waist before snapping back to my face.
I pull on the jeans, trading my tank top for a simple T-shirt that doesn’t hug my figure too tightly. Does he find me attractive? Or is he just keeping watch over me, fulfilling whatever obligation he had to my father?
Sometimes the way he looks at me... there's hunger there, something primal and barely restrained. Then guilt shadows his eyes, and he turns away, putting distance between us. Or perhaps I'm imagining it all because I have an embarrassing crush on him.
I brush my hair and step into sneakers. My heart beats a little faster knowing he's waiting just outside. I shouldn't care what I look like. I shouldn't be trying to appear put-together for him. But I do anyway, taking a deep breath before opening the door to face him.
I find Havoc leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He straightens when he sees me, and there it is—that flash in his eyes, a quick darkening before he controls it. Even in these plain jeans and a T-shirt, something about me affects him.
"Ready?" he asks, voice slightly rougher than before.
I nod, following him down the hallway. His broad shoulders fill my vision, the Wicked Sinners patch stretching across his back. I notice the way his silver hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck, and my fingers twitch with the urge to touch it.
