But really, it’s Beast that Grey should be worried about. If anyone were going to kill him, it’d be my husband. He’d sneak up on Grey in the hallway, grab him from behind, and snap his neck like a twig.
I almost smile at that, hiding the expression in my mug.
God, my life is fucked-up. What sort of maniac smiles at something like that anyway?
Fem trots up to the doorway, side-eying Grey with a curl of his lips. I give a small whistle, and the dog ducks beneath the table, ignoring the men to take up a position by my side. When Crown looks down at him, Feminist curls his lips back from his teeth and lets out a rumbling growl.
I stroke my hand over his head, and he puts his one remaining front leg in my lap.
“I have an idea,” I say, my stomach churning at the thought of what I’m about to suggest. “Why don’t we ask Cat to meet us at the house so I can get my stuff? Like … to clean out my room. Maybe we can get a read on him that way. Maybe I could even, I don’t know, talk to him for a minute.”
The thought makes me sad in a way that I can’t explain. For so long, I’ve wanted out of that horrible house with its horrible memories. And yet, now that I actually have an escape route, the prospect of never sleeping in that room again makes me sick.
I can’t explain it.
“That doesn’t solve the problem,” Crown offers up as Cade leans against the counter.
“If you want to get your things,” Beast offers up finally, “we can take you.”
We he says, because even he isn’t enough to keep me safe if the mafia decides to roll up while we’re in that house. That infamous motherfucking house.
“Gidget,” Crown tells me, turning his face to mine in what’s very clearly a warning. “Cat isn’t going to be in the mood to talk to you. We can … move you in here, sure.” He pauses to put his hand to his forehead, like he’s in the middle of adjusting to the idea, and rubs at his sun-kissed skin for a moment. “But you’re not going to get anything out of Cat. If we want to get Mafia Brat off the compound, we need a different idea.”
I nod, but I still want to do this.
Move my things in.
Talk to Cat.
Because I really think I am a sadist and a masochist both, all wrapped up into one.
Seeing my bedroom again after all this time makes me feel things that I don’t want to feel, memories bombarding me from all sides, choking me up. I can barely force myself through the doorway and inside, pausing in the center of the room with an empty box in my hand. As I look around, I wonder if I even want anything from this place at all.
“You want me to start packing anything in particular?” Sin asks, putting his forearms up on either side of the doorjamb, his body leaning over me from behind. His comforting scent—cinnamon and tobacco and cloves with that kiss of blood mandarin—wafts around me, making me shiver.
“I … don’t know,” I offer up, looking down at the bed where I had my first time with Grainger, and my second time with Sin, all within the span of an hour. I’ve sat on this bed and had conversations with Reba. I’ve taken a pregnancy test under Beast’s watchful eyes. I’ve applied eyeliner while talking to Crown about his hopes and dreams.
I … sat on this very bed while Posey leaned in my doorway and Queenie sat on the edge of my mattress, smiling over at me.
I’ve had my ass beaten by Gaz in this room.
I’ve had my father put a gun to my head and pull the trigger just before dumping my bloody dog in my lap.
My hands start to shake, but I make myself move forward, tossing the box on the bed as I fight the feelings, pushing them back to the edges of my consciousness. Sin moves into the room beside me, as connected to this place as I am.
He helped me move these very boxes in after Cat bought this place, upgrading us from the shithole we grew up in. Sin watched over me and my sisters here. He rejected the opportunity to be our head of security, thinking that he was doing the right thing and then coming to find out it was a regret he’d have to live with forever.
The first thing I do is pull Queenie’s cookbook out from between my mattress and my box spring. After Gaz hit me, and it got knocked under the fridge, I retrieved it the first chance I got and stashed it here.
Flipping it open, I stare at Queenie’s signature handwriting, the flowers on the tails of the Q’s, blooming on the dots of the I’s. My hands begin to tremble again, so I throw the stupid fucking thing in the box and try not to think how this is the end of an era.
