My fingers hurt with the phantom pain now.
The pain over the fact that he must’ve thrown it away.
Because it didn’t mean anything to him.
But more than that, there’s pain in my hands from holding on to the past so tightly.
“To knit,” he says in a low voice, his gaze piercing into mine.
“Yeah. I wanna make her socks. And hats.”
“Sweaters.”
I swallow, still cradling my belly. “I wanna make her those too. But I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“What if… What if she doesn’t like them? My sweaters.”
A muscle on his cheek pulses. “She’d love them.”
My heart jumps. “You think so?”
“I fucking know so.”
I like it…
That’s what he said back when I gave him the sweater and I was so happy that he did. But he was lying. I know.
I also know that he isn’t lying now.
And his next fiercely-spoken words prove it. “Because you’ll make it. And for once you’ll make it for someone who actually deserves your perfectly made things and your first attempts at intarsia.”
“Reed, I…”
I trail off because I don’t know what I was going to say. I don’t know what I wanted to say.
What did I want to say to him?
It doesn’t matter anyway because Tempest decides to tell us both, from where she’s still standing by Reed’s Mustang, that she’s hungry and that we should finish making googly eyes at each other later.
And then I’m so embarrassed that I was, in fact, making googly eyes at him, I don’t even look at Reed all throughout dinner. Although I can feel his eyes on me and also on Tempest, whom I think he’s glaring at.
After we’re done, we have a debate on who’s going to do what in terms of cleaning up. Reed wants to do everything himself but I tell him no. I tell him that I’m fine now and I can do stuff. Plus he’s tired from work anyway. So I clean up the table, put away all the food, and Reed does the dishes.
Tempest watches it all with her gray eyes that never ever seem to stop laughing.
When we’re done, she pulls me out of the kitchen without even a word to Reed and drags me to my room, closing the door.
“So?” Tempest goes when she’s got the door locked.
“So?”
Wide-eyed, she asks, “Are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“You’ve told me everything. Except one thing.”
“What is that?”
She sighs, looking at me, and her always smiling eyes go dim and grave. “Are you still mad at him? For what he did to you.”
My heart starts to thump in my chest. “I… I’m…”
She grabs my hand in hers and squeezes it. “Because if you are, then it’s okay. I support you.”
I squeeze it back. “A-and what if I’m not?”
“Then I support you too. Duh.”
“He’s your brother, Temp,” I remind her.
“I know. And I love him and he’s my BFF. But you’re my BFF too and I saw how you were that night. I saw what he did to you, Callie. I was there. He broke you.” She scoffs. “You’re the biggest good girl I’ve ever met and look what he made you do.”
My eyes sting.
I can’t believe this girl. I don’t know what I would’ve done if she hadn’t been with me. Not only that night but also throughout that summer.
I mean, she’s my partner in crime.
“So? Are you?” she prods.
And the only reason I can tell her is because not only do I love her but I also can’t keep it inside anymore. “I think… I think I’m tired now.”
“Of what?”
“Of being angry at him. Of holding on to the past. I try. I do. I… make myself remember and it was easy before. So easy but…” A tear falls down my cheek. “But I… it’s hard. He makes it so hard. Do you think I’m weak? For not being angry at him anymore. For letting go of the past.”
She has tears in her eyes too as she says, “God, Callie, you’re not weak. You’re one of the strongest people I know. You’re a survivor, okay? You survived your first heartbreak. You survived my brother. So no, it doesn’t make you weak. Moving on is not weakness. It’s a choice that we make when the time is right. It’s a choice that we make to cut that toxic, hurtful part out of our lives. So we can be free. We can have closure. You’re getting closure, Callie. You’re choosing not to hurt.”
I’m choosing not to hurt. I’m choosing closure.
That’s what I wanted, right? I wanted to move on.
I wanted to stop the hurt, the pain.
And it has stopped.
I haven’t felt that anger in such a long time. I’ve been trying to but it’s gone now.
He made it go away. He did it.
He did what I asked him to do that night.
He made it stop hurting.
“Closure,” I whisper, a light bulb going off in my head. “I’ve wanted that. That’s what I wanted.”
“And you have it now.”
I wipe the tears off my face and nod. “Yeah.”
“And besides, not being mad at him doesn’t mean you can’t make him pay,” Tempest says with raised eyebrows, wiping her own tears.
“What?”
She winks. “Watch this.”
Letting go of me, she opens the door and peeks her head out, shouting, “Reed, Callie’s feet hurt.” My eyes bug out and I tug on her arm to stop her but she doesn’t. “Get in here, bro. She says her feet hurt because of what you did to her. You knocked her up, didn’t you? And now her ankles are swollen and my best friend can’t stand. All because of you, Reed.” Then, she turns to me. “Wait, is it feet or ankles? What happens to pregnant women?”
A shock of laughter bursts out of me. “Uh, everything.”
She laughs too and I decide that as soon as I get a chance, I’m introducing her to all my St. Mary’s girls. She’s going to get along great with them, especially Poe.
That’s how Reed finds us, giggling like lunatics. His frown says all about what he thinks of that. Pair of silly teenage girls. This is exactly how he used to look at us back then, when Tempest and I would hang out together.
When Tempest leaves us alone, he asks, looking down at my ballerina feet, “What the fuck is she talking about? What’s wrong with your feet?”
I study his face.
His bruises are long gone now. His arched cheekbones, his straight pretty nose, those eyelashes, that V-shaped jaw dotted with stubble that he scratches in irritation.
“You really hate your stubble, don’t you?” I ask instead.
He frowns. “What the hell is wrong with your feet, Fae?”
“I like it, your stubble,” I keep going without answering him. “Always have. And your longish hair.”
His eyes pierce mine. “You like my longish hair.”
“Yes.” I eye his long, dark strands that are brushing against the collar of his shirt. “Technically you need a haircut. But I don’t want you to get one.”
He studies me a beat. “Fine.”
“Fine what?”
“I won’t get one.”
“You won’t get a haircut.”
“That’s what I said.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Because I said so.”
He tightens his jaw for a second before he almost growls, “Are we done chit-chatting? What the fuck is wrong with your feet?”
“Why, are you going to massage them?”
“If I have to.”
I bite my lip, circling my eyes over his face, my heart thumping in my chest. “You’re crazy.”
“And you’re pregnant.”
“With your baby,” I whisper.
Something washes over his beautiful but concerned features. Something heated and bright and possessive. And his eyes home in on my
tiny bump that, to be honest, is not even visible under his hoodie, but still.
“Yeah, you are,” he whispers back, gruffly. “So are you going to tell me?”
When I put my other hand on my stomach, he swallows, fisting his own hands.
The hands that I’m so entranced by.
The hands that I can completely admit I want on me. God, so much.
“I’m just pregnant, Reed. That’s all,” I tell him. “You don’t have to treat me like a princess. And no, nothing’s wrong with my feet. Tempest was just messing with you.”
“Tempest and I are going to have words.” He bends down slightly. “And I’m not.”
“What?”
“Treating you like a princess. Because you’re not a princess, are you?”
“No.”
He looks me up and down, my short body in his large hoodie, my daisy-printed pajama pants, my loose braid, my ballerina toes. “What are you then?”
My toes go up at his question and I whisper, “A fairy.”
His wolf eyes glow. “Yeah, my Fae.”
And I know what I have to do.
I know.
Today’s the day.
That I’m going to do what I’ve decided.
It’s not a special day per se. It’s a Monday after Tempest’s visit and everything’s been the same.
The school, the teachers, my supportive gang of girls.
Reed.
He’s been the same too, crazy protective and crazy caring, dropping me off at school, picking me up. Glaring at the lingering girls through the black metal gate. Helping me with the dishes and cleaning up after dinner.
In fact, that’s what he’s doing right now.
He stands beside me in his white dress shirt putting away the dishes that I’m giving him. And I’m doing the same thing that I always do these days, watching his strong beautiful hands, his veins, the tiny drops of water decorating his marble skin.
“Fae.”
I blink and look up. “What?”
He looks at me slightly impatiently. “The fucking dish.”
“Right.”
I hand him the rinsed dish I am holding and when he wipes it down and puts it up in the cupboard, I blurt out, “Reed, I…”
“You what?”
You what, Callie? Say it.
Tell him.
“I have a name,” I blurt out instead for some reason.
“What?”
“For her.”
He goes alert then. “You have a name for her.”
Biting my lip, I smile slightly. “Yes.”
Even though this wasn’t what I was going to say to him, I’m glad I did. Now that my mind isn’t muddled with exhaustion, I’ve been looking at names.
Or rather, paying attention in English lit class about character names and such.
And today I heard a name that I absolutely loved.
His wolf eyes sharpen with interest. “What is it?”
“Okay, so,” I begin, my voice buzzing with excitement as I close the tap and turn to him. “Today in class we were reading this story and there was a name that jumped out at me. It completely blew my mind.”
“Completely.”
“Yes. Like it changed how I looked at that name, you know. And I think it’s very rare. I don’t think I’ve ever —”
“Fae.”
“What?”
“What the fuck is the name?”
“Right, okay. Listen to this: Miya. With a Y.”
I grin then.
Because isn’t it wonderful? Who would have thought?
I mean, you either go with Mia or Maya. But Miya with a Y is so exotic and different and as soon as I heard it, I knew I was going to name her Miya.
He hasn’t said anything though.
He’s simply looking at me with a blank face, leaning against the counter in his open-collared office shirt, his arms folded across his chest.
So I prompt him as I keep grinning because I can’t contain the excitement. “So? What do you think? Miya with a Y, huh? I think this has completely changed how we think of the name Mia.”
“No.”
“What?”
“It hasn’t completely changed how we think of the name Mia.”
“What, why?”
“Because we still think Mia is a shitty name.”
“Excuse me?”
“And adding a Y in is not going to change that.”
I gasp. “Are you serious right now?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“Then you’re insane, Reed,” I tell him, raising my chin. “Mia is a wonderful name, okay? Adding a Y makes it even more wonderful.”
He shrugs then. “All right. I’m still not naming her Miya with a fucking Y.”
“You’re not naming her?”
“That’s what I said.”
I purse my lips at him. “First of all, you’re not going to name her anything. We’re going to do that. And second of all, I really don’t think you should curse, Reed. And third —”
“Why?”
“What?”
He unfolds his arms, straightening up, his eyes flashing. “You keep saying that. That I shouldn’t curse.”
I’m confused. “Yeah…”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
I tuck my loose strands behind my ears. “Because you shouldn’t.”
He takes a step toward me. “Yeah, you said that. Why?”
I automatically take a step back. “Because it’s bad manners.”
“And you’re a good girl.”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, you are.” He smirks slightly, taking me in, my braid, his hoodie, my bare toes.
I realize that I haven’t seen his smirk on him in so long. I haven’t seen him this cocky, this arrogant in so long either.
This predatory.
He’s glorious like this. Gorgeous.
As gorgeous as he is when he’s my protector.
Because he’s both, isn’t he?
He’s my protector, the one who takes care of me and treats me like I’m the most fragile thing ever, his Fae. But he’s also a predator, the one who broke my heart and who’s stalking toward me in all his dark glory.
“And what else?” he continues.
“I don’t like it.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“I don’t.”
“You always did,” he rasps, as he keeps coming toward me and as I keep moving back.
Until I can’t.
Because the small of my back has hit the counter and I come to a jerking halt.
Unlike my heart that’s pounding like crazy, because he’s right.
I do like it when he curses.
I do like it when he talks to me so unapologetically. In a way that’s so raw and intimate and… dirty. I’ve always liked it.
“Ask me how I know that,” he says when he reaches me, the predatory quality in his tone so thick that I can taste it.
“How?”
“Because you blush,” he rasps, watching me, his face dipped. “Now ask me why I do it. Why I talk dirty to you.”
I grab hold of the counter at my hips. “W-why?”
“So you can tell me not to and get all hot and bothered, while blushing like a daisy-fresh schoolgirl.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
I don’t know how to respond because my heart is right there, in the back of my mouth, beating and beating. And then, he decides to send it to the tip of my tongue.
Where it sits precariously, on the edge of a deep and deadly fall.
When he raises his hand, the hand that I’ve been so fascinated with, and runs a rough finger down my cheek.
I feel something swirling in my blood. Heat. So much of it.
A current, a pulse.
But more than that, I feel relief, because this is the moment when I also realize that along with letting his
predatory side sleep, he also hasn’t touched me.
It’s been weeks, actually, since he’s touched me like this.
I mean he has touched me, of course. But it has mostly been out of necessity, protection, an arm around my waist to help me stand up after a bout of nausea or a hand on the small of my back to usher me inside the exam room.
But not like this. Not since that night in his Mustang back in October.
He’s been holding himself back.
It’s all clear as day. When I see the relief that I’ve been feeling on his face. In his loosened shoulders, his parted lips. In the way his eyes home in on my cheek.
And God, I have to tell him. I have to say it to him now.
So he’ll touch me more.
“I liked that,” he whispers, breaking my urgent thoughts.
“What?”
“When you laughed. This weekend. With Pest.”
His finger is on my parted lips now. “Oh.”
“Haven’t seen you laugh like that in a long time,” he murmurs, still watching his finger. “Back when you’d come over to the house. And you and Pest would be gabbing about something in her room and suddenly you’d burst out laughing.” He pauses and a muscle jumps out on his cheek. “I’d hear you and I’d stop whatever I was doing and I’d think…”
I don’t know how I manage to string words together but I do and I whisper, “You’d think what?”
He looks into my eyes, his finger tracing the curve of my lips. “She laughs like a fairy too.”
My stomach hollows out and I grab onto his wrist with both hands as I say, my body melting, “I forgive you.”
He, on the other hand, goes rigid. “What?”
That’s what I wanted to say to him. That’s what I’d decided this weekend.
That I’d tell him that.
And so I do, even though he’s gone all rigid, all unforgiving. “I-I forgive you. For everything.”
He studies my face with a gaze that has hardened, much like his body. “Everything.”
I was afraid before, to say it.
To actually say the words and make them real.
But I’m not afraid anymore.
I’m not afraid to tell him that I’ve forgiven him because it is the truth. It has been the truth for some time now. Even though he doesn’t look too happy about it. He doesn’t look like he wants to hear it.
I dig my nails into his wrist. “Yeah. I forgive you for breaking my heart two years ago. For lying to me. For using me. For breaking your promises to me and for choosing your vendetta against your dad over me. I forgive you for all that.”
A Gorgeous Villain Page 40
