Page 93 of The Little Shop of Curiosities, The Music Box Part 2

“I don’t know what to say to that,” I murmur. “I understand, I guess, but…”

“I’m so sorry,” she says again. “I wanted you to be safe and happy. That was more important to me than my own happiness. I gave you to Dr Stanford and his husband because I knew they’d love you as much as I do. That’s all I wanted for you, to have a life filled with love.”

“I did.” She found two incredible men to love me and raise me. She may not have been able to keep me, but she gave me a gift. She gave me them. And I’m so grateful for that. “I do. My dads are amazing, although they’re going to be pretty pissed off when they find out about this.” I glance over at the debris.

She looks over her shoulder. “I have to go, they’re waiting for me on the other side.” She gives me one last look. “Have a beautiful life, and know that I always have and always will love you.”

“Wait.” I reach out to her as she turns away, causing her to look back at me. “I…I wish things had been different. I wish I’d gotten to know you. But I do understand your choices, even if I’m not sure I’d have made the same ones, but thank you for giving me to my dads. They really are the best.”

We smile at each other, and I think we come to a kind of understanding. Then she’s gone. I sag further against Sam. If he wasn’t holding me up, I’m sure I’d just slide bonelessly to the floor and be asleep before I was even horizontal.

Everything spins when I feel arms loop under my legs. Next thing I know, Sam is holding me effortlessly in his arms.

“Put me down,” I murmur. “I can walk. I’m not a baby.” But my head lolls against his firm chest and my eyes start to close.

“Go to sleep, Prickles.” His voice rumbles against my temple. “I’ve got you.”

22

By the time I get Harrison back to his place, he’s really out of it. A combination of the stress, the attack, the blood loss—basically everything that happened in the last several hours has just wiped him out.

We’d managed to locate his house keys and his phone where Isaac Crawshanks had set them aside, but I have no clue what happened to his socks, shoes, or any of his clothes except for the trousers he’s still wearing. Instead, wanting to get him out of that place as soon as possible, I simply wrapped him in my coat and carried him to my car. He didn’t speak on the drive back to Islington, barely even opened his eyes.

Once I manage to get the door open while propping him up, I wrestle him up the stairs to his flat, his weight pressing heavily against me. I keep my arms wrapped around him as he silently stumbles up each step. When we finally make it to his bedroom, I strip my coat off him and he falls onto the bed.

With some manoeuvring, I manage to get him on his back, and my gaze trails over his immobile form. His eyes are closed again, his breathing slow and even. He’s so pale. I know it’s probably from the blood loss, but it makes his freckles stand out so prominently. My eyes skim over his body and fix on the small, puckered, freshly healed scar.

There’s a heaviness in my chest that makes it hard to breathe. Unable to stare at him any longer, I place his phone on his bedside table, hook it up to charge, and fetch a glass of water. He needs his fluids replaced.

Shaking him awake, I try to get him to drink as much as he can. Although he thankfully hasn’t lost enough blood to send him into shock, I still think he should be at a hospital where they can put him on an IV and monitor him. But he won’t go, and honestly, I don’t even know how to begin explaining that he was stabbed and is suffering blood loss when the injury looks like it healed weeks ago.

After pushing the glass away, he collapses back into bed. I refill the glass and set it on the table alongside his phone. I pull the covers up over him so he won’t get cold, but as I turn to leave, his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.

“Stay,” he croaks. “Don’t leave me.”

That’s a loaded request.

I stare at him silently, unsure if I can trust my response right now. But before I can figure out what to say, he’s slid back into sleep, his grip loosening as his hand drops to the sheets.

I reach out to smooth a lock of his beautiful red hair back from his forehead. Then I walk out of the room and leave him sleeping.

In the kitchen, I search through his cupboards until I uncover a bottle of whiskey. It’s brand new and sealed, with a gift label attached at the neck.

For emergencies. Love, Grumps.

Well, Grumps, this definitely constitutes an emergency. I crack open the top. Ordinarily, after everything I’ve been through with my mam, I’d avoid drinking right now. It’s a slippery slope for my family, but I think I can be forgiven this time.

In the cupboard, I find a clean glass, then head downstairs, open the back door, and take a seat on the doorstep.

Breathing in the crisp night air, I close my eyes for a second and search for my equilibrium. My mind is tied in knots, but I try to process everything that has happened.

I pour a generous glass from the bottle, take a sip, and savour the flavour as the liquid slides over my tongue. From my pocket, I retrieve the open packet of cigarettes I’ve taken to carrying around with me and Viv’s mermaid lighter.

I slip a cigarette from the pack and tuck it between my lips. It’s a bit stale from the packet being open for so long, but who the fuck cares—I’m only going to light the fucking thing and smoke it.

The first inhale is pure pleasure, then my eyes fall on the name Sam scribbled across the pack along with those four numbers.

4532.