Page 2 of This Reckless Home

“Thank you, kindly Tina.” Sarcastic dickhead.

She makes a considering sound, then looks at Steele. The size difference is comical; she barely reaches his chest. “A proper English cuppa for you, I think, not microwaved. Milk, no sugar?”

I still. What kind of witchcraft is this? Steele had one home before he came to the group one where they drank tea, the only decent home any of us ever had. It’s his preference, and he’s always banging on about how most Americans microwave it, much to his disgust.

“That would be appreciated, Tina. Thank you,” he replies in his deep voice with a dip of his head, and I blink. Not sure I’ve heard him say such a long sentence before to a stranger.

“Right, you lot make yourselves at home and Blossom will be here momentarily,” Tina orders, bustling out of the room, leaving only the scent of flowers behind, lavender I think if I had to guess.

“I feel like we just stepped into the Twilight Zone or some shit,” Nox huffs, and I nod, agreeing with him.

“Who’s Blossom?” I ask, directing my question to Marie, Jus still clinging onto my hand. He may be ten years old, but he’s been through some shit and both of us hate that we’re always separated.

“She’s the person fostering,” Marie replies, my lips pursing as I wonder why she couldn’t be bothered to be here on time.

As I open my mouth to question what the hell she means, the front door bangs open, the sound of children’s chatter and laughter following.

“Noah, Mitchell, we do not live in a bomb site, so kindly hang up your coats, please,” a prim British voice calls out from the hall.

My grip on Jus’s hand tightens, my breaths turning shallow as I hear footsteps hurrying towards us.

“Marie, gosh, I am so sorry. Rachel had an issue at school that needed my attention and—” Her voice cuts off as she rounds the doorway, large hazel eyes locking with mine. “Oh. Hello.”

“HARD FOR ME” BY MICHELE MORRONE

BLOSSOM

I come to a stop, all thoughts flying out of my head as my gaze snags on the bright blue eyes of possibly one of the most gorgeous guys I’ve ever seen. There’s a hint of surprise in their depths, underneath a calculating watchfulness that seems to strip me bare in an instant.

“Oh. Hello,” I say, immediately wanting to facepalm because, Jesus Christ. Way to sound so clueless.

I lick my dry lips, tearing my gaze away from his stare, only to note his dark hair which falls into those mesmerising eyes, his athletic build, and the tattoos peeking from the collar of his well-worn t-shirt that clings to muscles which frankly should be quite illegal if us poor women have any hope of functioning.

“Blossom, don’t worry, we’ve only been here a few minutes,” Marie states, breaking me from staring at the Demi-God who appears to be in my messy living room.

Oh god. My hand twitches, wanting to fly up to check my hair, which I know is probably falling out of its messy bun. I want to lament the fact that I have no makeup on, am wearing jeans I know have a stain on from breakfast and an oversized jumper which hangs off one shoulder and though it’s one of my favourites, it does nothing for my admittedly not skinny figure. I have a weakness for Tina’s baked goods and a habit of stress-eating them — my one rebellion against a lifetime of being told to watch my portions, my posture, my everything.

“Oh,” I stutter out again. God smite me now. “Thank heavens.”

“We have a bit of an unusual situation, Blossom,” she goes on, and I take a breath, ignoring the stunning man and trying to focus on her. “Justin here needs to be fostered; his older brother, Anatole, can’t take him.”

My gaze flicks to said older brother — Anatole, she said — and my breath catches despite myself. He's tall, broad through the shoulders in a way his t-shirt doesn't bother hiding, ink creeping up from his collar in dark lines I can't make out from here. Colour is high on his cheeks, jaw sharp and clenched, and there's something raw underneath the tension — like he's bracing for a fight he already thinks he's lost. His eyes, when they finally meet mine, are a blue so pale it's startling, guarded and assessing in a way that makes me feel unexpectedly seen.

My heart aches for him — that specific shame of standing in a room, failing someone who's watching. I know that flush better than I'd like to admit. It must be impossibly hard not to be able to look after your own family, probably because of no fault of his own if he’s here, because Marie wouldn’t allow just anyone into my home, so I know he is a decent guy. “He and his friends insisted they come along to see where Justin will be living.”

Friends?

I twist my head when movement near the mantelpiece draws my attention, and good god, there’s another one. He seems shorter than Anatole, but not by much, and still taller than me by several inches. His features are sharp, cutting almost, like his pale green eyes which slice into me, stealing my breath. His skin is a light brown, bronze with a rose undertone — like something handmade, not manufactured, rich and sun-warmed and completely at odds with his honed features. Silver jewellery adorns his neck, wrist and fingers, and I wonder if it is warm against his skin. His hair on top is braided into the most extraordinary twisted cornrows, shaved on the sides and back close to his scalp. I must get him to show me how to do that for Noah. He’s wearing a hooded black tank top which showcases the most delicate black tattoo sleeve. Peony flowers, rays of light, a snarling wolf sit among the designs, and usually they would be thick traditional tattoo lines, but these are exquisite and almost a little feminine.

“Nox is the name. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Blossom,” he practically sneers, and I flinch at the lashing from his full, plush lips. His brows dip, but I look at the third stranger before he can say anything else that might cut me to ribbons.

He’s by the window, and my goodness, the man is tall. Like, giant tall. I have to tilt my head even from here. And he’s huge, his t-shirt straining to hold all the mouth-watering muscles in. Muscles that are covered in scars, from what I can see of his arms, anyway. His skin is a rich mahogany, a shade that changes as clouds pass the sun outside and the light shifts — once brown, now nearly black. His hair is dark, tight curls, but cut in a short military style, and his eyes are also dark, though I can’t see them clearly with the light shining behind him. He steps to the side, the light no longer blinding me, and my breath catches. Like the other two, he’s jaw-droppingly gorgeous, but there’s a haggard scar that bisects his face, lending him a dangerous air and a rugged beauty.

He gives me a sharp dip of his head. “Steele.”

His voice shivers across my skin, reaching deep and caressing me inside. Good lord, I’m not sure I could cope if he’d said much more.

“Blossom, it’s lovely to meet you.” I turn to look at Nox, then at Anatole. “All of you.”