Most of all, I saw regret, like Haven was second-guessing becoming a murderess…
There’s something she doesn’t know, though. She might’ve just figured out how poisonous foxglove is because of that old book that stayed up reading—and that I stayed up watching her read—but this is the Heyward family home. I’ve always lived here. When I was twenty, my parents moved to a pricy gated condo complex on the outskirts of Harmony Heights, where members of the Owed with a tendency to swing swap keys, wives, and sometimes lives. No one judges them there, and ifknowing that my dad likes to be pegged and mom has a husbandanda boyfriend makes my lack of a sex life even more of a joke, I’m happy they’re busy with their thing, leaving me to do whatever the fuck I want on their dime.
All I’ve ever wanted was Haven. I played my part. Did my role. On paper, I’m the perfect Owed, except for my refusal to get married, but since I’m not thirty yet, I’m still considered a member in good standing.
I own my house. I donate to all Owed charities. I spent all of my time until now either working with Dallas, helping Bas evade his Order duties, or stalking Haven. I’m a simple guy who knows what he wants, and who will do whatever it takes to have it.
But, when I was a sixteen-year-old dumbass, still living with my parents here, Desmond noticed the foxglove growing in our side yard and dared me to eat the purple petals.
Did I know it was poisonous then? Yup. Mom warned me when I was much younger not to eat anything growing outside our house. Did I listen? Five-year-old Connor thought she was saving the good stuff for her and Dad, and he sucked on the poisonous bells.
Got sent to the hospital for that one, and some non-Owed nurse had CPS called when the results said I was poisoned. Dad paid them off before they could investigate—not that they would’ve found anything other than a headstrong kid—because he didn’t want his and my mother’s nighttime proclivities to become common knowledge in Harmony Heights just yet. Then he said he’d lock me in the basement if I ever did something so stupid again.
Huh. In retrospect, maybe I get a lot of my outlook on life from my seemingly normal, decidedlynotold man…
I’d told Des that story in passing once while we were sharing a beer in my backyard. He thought it was hysterical that I almost accidentally poisoned myself, and he dared me to do it again.To Des, it was a win-win. Either I refused, and he would tell the other guys I was a chickenshit, or I died, and he leapfrogged over my corpse to rise in the ranks of the future Owed.
I knew what he was up to. If Adrian was hanging with us that night, he would’ve stopped me, but he was probably smoking a cig, staring up at Loni’s window the same way I used to be a peeping tom when it came to Haven’s. Sebastien was off fucking Melissa Landow, while Dallas… if he wasn’t with us, he was working for the King, and I hate to think of all the shit Jack had Dallas doing when he was only sixteen.
Since it was just me and Des, and he called me a pussy for hesitating, I shoved him in the shoulder, knocking him laughing onto his ass while I grabbed a couple of petals and swallowed those fuckers whole.
It was two, maybe three. Not enough to kill me, but plenty to keep me wishing for death for the next day and a half. When Mom figured out what I had done, she didn’t tell Dad, but she spent the entire time I was locked in the bathroom threatening to kill me herself if I survived.
I’ll say this: the experience taught me two very valuable lessons.
First, Desmond is a grade-A asshole himself.
Second? Foxglove, as a poison, is unpleasant, but not particularly effective when administered by somebody who has absolutely no idea what they're doing. I already knew that swallowing a couple of petals would make mewishI would die, though I wouldn’t. Dunking the plant in my coffee? I’m feeling it, but it could’ve been worse.
I’ll gladly suffer all of the side effects because it wasHavenwho poisoned me. Instead of being a passive victim in her own captivity, she tried to do something about it. I almost thought that, after I stopped her from escaping, I’d caused her to relapse.That she was retreating back into the shell of the woman she was instead of healing little by little.
I wasn’t being a dick when I said I love it when she’s murderous. It excites me, and I don’t just mean my poor cock. Before the effects of the foxglove hit me, I was so hard-up, I needed to take the edge off. I don’t think I’ve come that hard in ages—the way I creamed my pants after Haven threatened to cut my throat comes to mind—but I blew my load—and then I blew my chunks.
I love that she acted. That she made a choice, and she followed through with it. I pissed her off, and she retaliated.
She was angry.
She’s so fucking beautiful when she’s angry.
Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to see her angry? To see some sign of life? I’d rather have her look at me with rage than fear, and if I have to anticipate her attempts to kill me before I can convince her to love me? I’ll fucking do it.
I’ll do anything for my wife.
The next day,I finally drag myself into the basement. I feel like shit, and look like death warmed over. Still, I don’t want Haven to think that I died and abandoned her or something, and the slight flash of relief I notice when I hobbled into her space makes the whole damn night more than worth it.
I’ve been sleeping down here ever since she pulled off her escape attempt. I know better than to think she’s ready to let me share her bed so I curl up on the couch. Sometimes I’m already up, brewing coffee and prepping her breakfast before she slips quietly out of the attached bedroom. Sometimes I awake to see her scrutinizing me with a scrunched-up face. It’s like she can’tdecide whether having me down here makes her feel safer or more uncomfortable than if she were alone.
I asked her. She refused to answer. Knowing better than to push it, I let it go… but I didn’t stop spending most of my time down here with her. Maybe if she grabs a notepad and tells me to get out, I’d listen—and who the hell am I kidding? I need her to love me. To worship me. To die without me… and how can I do that if I let her retreat into the dark corners of her mind again?
No. I will talk to her. I will treat her like she’s the Haven I’ve always loved while not glossing over what happened to her. I don’t evenknowexactly how those assholes tortured her, though after a month, I’m pretty sure I can guess.
I want to go after them. I plan on it, too. The warehouse in East Hamilton—as well as Andino’s body—is bye-bye, but I won’t feel like Winter got his just desserts until his blood is on my knife. Too bad that he’s basically a ghost; not even Adrian can find the bastard, and Adrian can usually findanyone. I tell myself that it took him six weeks to track down Haven after she was taken. It’s only been a month. There’s time, and when Johnny Winter pokes his head out of whatever hole he’s hiding in, he’smine.
For now, it’s all about bringing Haven back to me. Which is why I need to show her that: a) I’m okay, and b) I’m not mad. I might’ve stayed upstairs all night so that she didn’t have to witness what the foxglove did to me, but I’ve showered, I’ve changed, I’ve brushed my teeth, and I’m ready to see if my stomach’s settled enough to share breakfast with my wife.
Haven is sitting on the edge of the couch, one of the mystery books in her trembling hands. She was pretending to read it as I made my way down, and after I caught that relief, she’s now staring unseeingly at a page while purposely avoiding my gaze.
Her shiny brown hair is falling forward, hiding her face from me. Her shoulders are tense, the rest of her body unnaturallystill. It doesn’t take a body language expert to tell that she’s braced for whatever punishment I want to dish out.
