Page 55 of Unwritten Rules

Ever.

I’ve always, always, always taken her best interests to heart.

Knowing that I’d hurt her irreparably – and intentionally – made me feel like I was a hairsbreadth away from throwing up.

I rapidly pack up my shit and hot-foot it to my SUV, anxious to make amends if she will allow me to.

The trip back to Hawthorne House is quick, and before I know it, I’ve arrived at a darkened house with no welcoming light in sight.

Letting myself in the main doors, I discard my shoes and tiptoe upstairs as lightly as possible, bypassing the master’s chambers and heading straight for my own.

The door is closed, but unlocked – presumably because she’d not know that the key is hidden inside a first edition copy of Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman.

Initially, I decided to give her the night to cool off – to abide by her demand not to come near her; but a scream from inside the chambers reminded me of why exactly my subconscious had made me return here.

The nightmares.

Shoving the door open, I’m through the living area and into the bedroom beyond in a heartbeat. Mila is sitting upright, her head thrown back to expose her slender neck as an ear-piercing scream rips from her throat.

I cross the space between us and ever-so-gently wrap my arms around her without hesitation. Her screams decrease in intensity, quickly lessening until she’s quivering against my chest.

Little whimpers escape from between her chattering lips, and the sheen of sweat on her brow, visible from the light streaming from the ensuite, leaves no doubt in my mind that these past ten months apart have not been kind to her.

Regardless of the brave face she shows the world – no matter how tough she likes to think that she is – I know I never should have left her to deal with these nightmares alone.

Watching her rest in the safety of my embrace, my mind wanders back in time to three years previously. Back to the day when this unexpected bond between us was forged. The day that changed every-fucking-thing.

* * *

Mila DeMarco, my silent companion in the Lamborghini Aventador we’d taken from Henry’s childhood home, has been a kindred spirit right from the off. Ever since I met her at the age of fourteen with braids and braces and a whole mouth of attitude that was only lessened when we began to speak of books and reading.

I wasn’t blind to the hero-worship. I’m not obtuse.

And the fact of the matter was that I’d loved having a like-minded…dare I say, friend, to speak on topics I’d long thought I was alone in adoring.

Her skinny little tanned arms are crossed over the used-to-be white vest top that’s now covered in dirt and blood, most likely her own. Her filthy Converse are propped against the dash as she stares out the passenger side window, her brow bandaged from the damage done in the kidnapping.

Her entire demeanour screams don’t fuck with me, but I can’t stop myself.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head sharply. “What do you think, genius?”

Eyes on the road, I wrack my brain for what else to say, but before I can land on something, Mila rips her feet from the dash and spins to face me.

I dart a look across the console and spy narrowed, accusing eyes before returning my gaze to the country roads flying past on either side of the car.

“What the fuck did you do that for, anyway?”

I furrow my brow. “Do what exactly?”

She huffs. “Take the blame, you great big idiot. I’m a minor. The repercussions—”

She pulls up short as I pull over, slamming on the brakes.

I turn to face her, finding big golden eyes brimming with tears. “Mila, don’t worry about it. It’ll be okay.”

She dashes the tears from her lower lids without allowing them to fall. “And what if it’s not, Nathaniel?”