by Nicci Harris
She shouldn't be.
And yet, this is her fate now.
In our bed.
Cassidy.
She crawls into my brain and makes me contemplate a different life. I focus on her lovely little tits, sloped to small peaks and moving with a gentle sway as they rise and fall. She is out cold. She must be exhausted. For a few moments, I simply watch her breathing. Moving my gaze to her face, I notice her eyes flicker slightly. Lips pout and, fuck me.
She's beautiful.
Soft. And inside, in her mind, so fucking silly I want to wrap her in cotton wool and never let the world taint her. Not like I have -
With that thought, I slide out of bed and pull a pair of jeans on, making sure to tuck my cock in properly before I pull the zipper up. It's not easy having a big cock sometimes. . . I chuckle coldly at that. Such a fucking burden.
I leave the room, shirtless and with my jeans hanging at my hips.
As soon as I notice Carter, standing at the bottom of the staircase, I'm instantly reminded that he let her sneak into bed with me last night without any warning.
Halting at the bottom step, I fold my arms across my chest and scowl at him. He's a tall, fucking ugly piece of work, but I like him. For all the right reasons and a few wrong ones. "Didn't think to warn me she was coming up? I could have shot her."
He isn't scared of me. That's always been refreshing, but he is professional. A face like a smashed crab - workplace injuries - and biceps like my head, he's a fucking monster. Under that, though, is a finely tuned moral compass. I believe he ignores the arrow on occasion, but it's there anyway, guiding him.
"Bronson knew, boss. I told him," he states adamantly.
And that pisses me off. "And why did you do that?"
"Sorry, boss." He hesitates. "You wouldn't have shot her."
"Maybe not." When I note the slightest grin on his face, I pause. This fucker knows. "You know." It isn’t a question and yet, it still demands an answer.
He nods once. "Yes. I overheard-"
"I don't care. Shit changes now." I step to his level. "Understand? I want you to get your guys, go to Cassidy's house, and pack up her shit. She's moving in here. I need Life360 installed on her phone. Also, I need a phone. So sort that out for me. And a bigger room, I think. And a fucking list of obstetricians and-" Faltering, I rub my face before cracking my jaw with my palm to relieve the pressure. I shake my head, feeling unprepared, and I fucking hate that.
Carter studies me. "Shouldn't Miss Slater come with us, advise us what she wants to take?"
I walk into the kitchen, expecting Carter to follow. "Take it all."
"Does she know what we are doing?"
Stilling at the fridge, I slowly step to face him again. He's on the other side of the island bench, all professional in stance and appearance, but his tongue is a bit too inquisitive for my liking. "You're asking a lot of fucking questions, Carter. What's that all about?"
He straightens further. "Nothing. Just. . ."
"Oh fuck, please don't hold back now, you ugly bastard. Spill."
"You should ask her to move in, Max," he says, sounding more like my father than my employee and I both dislike and like that familiarity. "Not tell her."
Carter has been working for us for over fifteen years. He is a few years younger than Butch and has proven himself to be loyal beyond his contract. Beyond what we could have imagined. I turn my back to him and open the fridge door, pulling out an orange juice. "I don't need to ask."
I hear him shuffle his feet with apprehension. "In this case, you should anyway."
When I spin back, I'm met with a glint of nervousness. "I should, should I? Are you in love, Carter?"
His teeth flash as he laughs. "Good thing I'm ugly."
"Yeah." I grin at him because. . . who can't she charm? "Good thi-"
Suddenly, I hear the sound of voices - Butch's and someone else's. Usually, I don't care to involve myself in Butch's business, but in this case, the other voice has piqued my interest. Putting my glass down on the island bench, I stride past Carter and head down the hallway towards Butch's office.
"I thought you would protect my daughter. After everything I have done for you-"
With that, I push open the doors to the office, making my presence known. Ben Slater and Butch both look over at me, neither overly taken back by my attendance. Which in itself seems far too forced. Butch shifts his weight slightly - a gesture that on any other man would seem like unease. He taught us boys from a young age to be the impartial man in the room. To keep others guessing as to our intentions. As to our interests. Never show anyone what affects us. At times, I am good at this. When it comes to Cassidy though, less so.
Whereas I'm half-dressed, both men are in tailored dark suits. That doesn't faze me at all. I didn't even know Butch was here. And Ben isn't powerful in a suit. He isn’t powerful at all.
"You discuss Cassidy with me. Not Butch," I state, growing further irritated that Cassidy's father came over here but clearly didn't respect me enough to address his issues with me. I cross my arms over my chest and wait for him to do just that - discuss Cassidy.
Butch leans on his desk casually. "Ben is sharing his concern for Cassidy's wellbeing."
I stiffen, but despite my annoyance, I try to keep my voice level. "Cassidy's wellbeing is my business."
Ben Slater is a lean man with an aura of wholesomeness that I couldn't feign even if I wanted to. I highly doubt Ben Slater finger fucks his wife at dinner, surrounded by some of the richest, most autocratic pricks in the District. He'd be an in-the-bedroom-missionary-style man, for sure. Everything about Ben is hopeful and gentle and boring. From his unguarded generous hazel eyes to his open stance and neat appearance. He is anything but the impartial man in this room.
He smiles sadly at me. "How did she hurt her arm?"
Her arm. That fucking slice. My hands twitch, but I try to keep my face straight. "She was attacked. Nothing like that will ever happen again. I have taken care of it."
I narrow my eyes at them as they share a glance, the non-verbal exchange rather odd. Filled with meaning. Secrets. I don't like it. Why Butch is even entertaining this conversation is beyond me. Not that I know all of his dealings. Or want to. But still-
"She's my daughter, Max. I love her very much. I just want her to be safe," he states, openly expressing his affections like the sentimental man he is known to be. Of course he loves his daughter. She's his daughter.
His daughter.
That dull ache moves through my chest again at the thought of having a daughter. At having a son. At either of them getting hurt. He has every right to be worried. This is his business, goddamn-it. Fuck. I'd be hunting down the bastard who cut my little girl. I'd be burning houses to the ground indiscriminately.
I unfold my arms. "Nothing is more important to me than keeping her safe."
"Can you?" When Ben takes a step towards me, I grit my teeth, then have the urge to put my hand on his shoulder and reassure him. But I don't. "Keep her safe for me."
I nod once. "I can."
For you.
For me.
Cassidy
* * *
Walking down the third storey hallway, I tip toe towards the sound of banging and laughter and music - some kind of gangster rap. I stop mid-step when I hear the easy-going chuckle of Bronson filling the gaps between the profanity-filled lyrics. Glancing down at my pink silk pyjamas, I consider going back and covering myself in a robe.
Another bang pulls my gaze back to the room ahead.
Max's voice, more relaxed than I've heard it in a long time, greets my ears like a warm hug. His tone makes my heart pirouette. With that lovely feeling, I'm too intrigued to turn back.
The door at the end is open. Its walls are painted a bright white, reflecting the natural light. When I reach the entry, I peer around, trying to catch a glimpse of who is inside before they notice me. Bronson's dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a blue shirt the colour of his eye
s. I notice Butch at the exact same time as he notices me.
Frick.
My cheeks warm at his welcoming smile. He's in a dark fitted suit, looking oddly out of place standing on the blue tarpaulin that covers the floor. "Girl of the hour."
Butterflies break loose in my stomach.
Bronson uses his watch to turn the music down. He grins at me, that mischievous dimple indenting his cheek. "Good morning, sister Cassidy."
"Hi," I say, waving a little, like a complete weirdo.
Max steps out from around the corner, his strong tattooed torso bare, abdominal muscles moving as he lowers the big mallet-type object in his hand. "Little one, too loud?"
My mouth drops open, partly because he's a sight worthy of a statue and also because he appears to be putting holes in a wall. I stare at the holes in the plasterboard, timber beams exposed, dusty residue lingering around.
I shake my head, glancing back at Max but find all three eyes fixed on me. "No."
Butch moves towards me, stopping an arm's length away. "Congratulations. I can't tell you how pleased I am for you both."
Stunned, a response literally refuses to form in my mind. I didn't expect Butch to be pleased. Although, he is Sicilian. They like big families, right? Maybe. I don't know. That's a stereotype, perhaps a falsity. But he is Catholic, so it can't sit well with him that we are having unprotected sex out of wedlock. Wedlock. . . Who uses the word wedlock anymore? I start blinking really fast, unable to stop.
Bronson chuckles and is quickly upon me, banding his arms around my middle and lifting me off the ground. He squeals like a little girl getting a new toy. "We're having a baby."
Unable to ignore the clear approval of the Butcher family, my cheeks burn hot with equal parts happiness and embarrassment. When Bronson places me on the ground, I stare at Max. A veil of feigned exasperation at his big brother covers the hint of a grin.
"Pick her up like that again and I'll remove your arms," he says, revealing that smirk.
Bronson's silly cavalier smile only grows. "Ah, Maxipad. I'm so proud I'm rubbing off on you."
I shift in place, still confused by the moment. Still coming to terms with everything myself. Still. . .isn't it a bit early to tell people? Shouldn’t we have informed people together? I should have told my mum first. Or Flick. I find myself staring at the cracked plasterboard in a kind of daze. "Why are you putting holes in the wall?"
Butch moves towards the hallway, stopping to catch my line of sight. His eyes are blue and full of fierce confidence, still managing to make me swallow even though he's not intimidating right now. "I will leave you to it. You need anything. . ." Nodding, he stares over at Max. "Nothing takes precedence over this."
Butch strides down the hallway, flanked by a swaggering Bronson. Max tilts his head at me, making a show of lapping up the sight of my scantily covered body, toe to crown, his eyes somehow managing to stroke me until the sensation is palpable. My knees buckle. "Don’t wear that outside of our bedroom, little one."
I glance at the wall. "What are you doing?"
His eyes fix onto mine and beneath their stormy-blue depths is something I haven’t seen since before the auction. Hope. "Making the room bigger."
Feeling as though I already know the answer, because Max Butcher is all about telling me how he feels, what he wants, and what to expect with gestures and actions, I ask anyway, "Why?"
"For us." He swings the mallet into the plaster to reveal more of the space on the other side. "And him," he states, glancing at my belly. Immediately, I press my palm between my hips, over the spot that has his attention. It's the first time I've done this. Touched my belly, knowing someone else is forming on the other side. I don't know why women do this when they're pregnant, but here I am doing it.
It's like a little hello - an acknowledgment. I know you're there.
Hello, little baby.
Pin pricks hit the backs of my eyes, and tears quickly flood my face, but I think I'm smiling too - crying and smiling. That would be appropriate given my emotional state.
Max drops the mallet. The weight of it hitting the floor causes vibrations beneath my feet. "Don't do that." He quickly envelops me in his arms, cloaking me in his manly scent that is all Max Butcher. All hot. Sweaty. Consuming.
As big hands move up into my hair, pressing me to him, I cuddle his waist.
"This is a lot," I whisper.
He holds me still for a few moments in this room, which smells like paint, dust, and wood. After a few moments, he pushes me out in front of him, searching my confused - overly - ridiculously, emotional face. "You're moving in-" He stops for a second, grumbling roughly at himself. "You should move in."
I divert my gaze to the view from the window. It is just like the one in our old room, but with a better view of the canals to the south.
In our old room.
Glancing away from him, I look at the hole in the wall, then back to him again. I gather my thoughts. Channel my emotions. Is this really happening? A few months ago, the mere thought of this would have excited me to the point of frenzy. Now though, after Erik, after all the secrets, the excitement at the prospect of sharing my daily life with Max Butcher is also coiled with concern. Tainted with it.
* * *
"I love Max. He didn't choose his lifestyle."
"Yeah, but you still can."
* * *
Worry winds itself around my heart and lungs, making it hard to breathe. I want peace for him - burden free and open. The man I see smiling after a game of rugby. The one content in my arms after an intimate moment. The one with me.
My Max.
I seek out his gaze. "I want a normal life for us. For you."
Those tempestuous deep-set eyes fix me with their intensity. "Tell me, what does that look like to you?"
I sigh, a little sad that he doesn’t already know what that means. I don't really know what Max Butcher, son of Luca, heir to a corrupt empire, looks like after he leaves me alone in his bed. I'm not sure I want to. I do know, as clear and true as my love for him is, what my Max looks like. "A nine-to-five job. Home for dinner every night. Holding each other all night long. Rugby on the weekends. . . Bruises that can be explained." I touch the red-purple discolouration on his jaw. Wincing as if his pain were my own, I say, "I don't want violence to be so trivial to you, Max."
He threads his fingers through mine, lowering my hand. The tunnelling grey eyes of the man who consumes me soften further as they search my face. "The bruises are from boxing. I told you that."
"And the rest of what I said?"
"That's a fairy-tale."
"It doesn’t have to be," I state adamantly, thinking about how my parents have dinner together every night with fresh-cut flowers, settings and placemats on the table. Even when their children are too preoccupied or busy, they still spend dinner together. I think about how they still shower together every night. Still steal touches and kisses when they think no one is looking.
"I'll give you everything I have to give," he murmurs, stroking his palms down my cheeks.
I press into his firm, possessive touch, closing my eyes to feel the warmth of those hands. Suddenly, I'm fraught with the vision of Max and his brothers soaking in ice baths, beaten and bruised. My eyes bat open. He's lived in a kind of emotional poverty. I'll show him it's possible. A real and sweet, however normal, existence. I'll give Max Butcher the fairy-tale.
I'll give him peace and placemats. "It is possible."
Searching his eyes as they scan my face affectionately, I want to ask if he's in danger, want reassurance he will come home at night in one piece because God, I won't survive losing him. And this is it now. A big leap towards a forever with Max Butcher and oh my gawd, that sinks in. This isn't life-changing news about someone else; this is our life-changing news. Life-sealing news. Life-fricking-cementing news. Instead of all that rambling, I simply agree, "I'll move in."
His lips curve, setting into that magnetic, yet menacing Max Butcher grin.
I smile back, unable to refuse him when he's like this. When he's calm. Relaxed. "You're so happy right now, why?"
"Wallabies won against the All Blacks," he states with a shrug, picking up the mallet and throwing it through the wall. When white clouds of dust fly around the room, Max's eyes snap to me. "Leave until it's clean in here, little one." When I giggle at that, he lets out a long, satisfied sigh. "I've missed that sound."
"Why are you so happy?" I repeat.
He slowly runs his tongue along his lower lip. "I can still taste you."
I bite back a nervous smile. "Max."
"You make me happy, Cassidy. Remember?"
Cassidy
* * *
With a pair of angel wings strapped to my back, I rush around, trying to find candles and a lighter as the party carries on around me. This is the very first party I've ever hosted. Ever. My mum and Flick usually do the honours. They are the queens of hosting parties with their extensive lists of friends and their expert tastes in food and wine.
Luckily for me, though, Bronson's birthday falls on Halloween, so I got away with making fun spooky-inspired food and silly multicoloured beverages. I'm all over that.
As for the guests, it wasn't exactly hard to get most of the District here given The Butcher Boys' social status - especially Bronson's. He's, well. . . he's a paradox. There isn't a girl here who wouldn't climb him like the tall, muscular, colourfully carved tree that he is.
Well, besides me, Flick, and Stacey.
Of course, it was me and my big mouth that insisted on throwing him a twenty-fifth birthday party. I love my Bronson bear, but I also wanted to showcase my being a part of the Butcher household without actually coming out and saying it. Loudly. Proudly. So every fricking person in the District can hear and see.
Turning to look in another drawer, I take a step forward. I'm immediately jerked back, my wings snagged on a black chrome pantry handle. Laughing at myself, I pull my wings free, then riffle through drawer after drawer.
