Page 103 of Toxic Kiss

Haven doesn’t say anything. For a moment, I stand there trying to convince myself I should leave and give her space.

That’s what decent people do. But I’ve never been decent, and Haven has never been someone I can walk away from.

Especially, not now, not when she’s hurting.

Lying her down, I climb onto the bed beside her and pull the blanket over both of us before sliding an arm around her waist.

“Go away, Cy. Please,” she pleads, looking into my eyes.

“No. Never. You’re mine, Butterfly,” I whisper, smoothing the wild red strands of hair away from her face. “You may not see it yet, but I do. I’m never letting you go again.”

She stiffens for half a second, then relaxes, not bothering to fight me. I pull her close, and Haven buries her face against my chest as silent tears soak through my shirt.

In a flash, clarity comes, and I understand something terrifying. This isn’t the controlled anger she throws at me. This isn’t the woman who storms through life and stage rehearsals as if she owns them.

This is the girl who wrote in journals under her blankets late at night. The girl who cried when Patrick died, and even though I heard her sobs, I never comforted her. Instead, I told her that he was never her friend. This is the girl I spent years pretending to hate, because wanting her felt like standing too close to the edge of a cliff.

My hand moves slowly through her silky hair, cradling her head next to my heart.

“Let it out,” I murmur.

For a long time, we stay like this, Haven crying, and my arm wrapped around her acting as a shield I should have used years ago. My initial thought was that this pain was about Charles, about his betrayal, about the man she planned to marry. And maybe some of it is.

A sick realization coils in my stomach at the way her sobs shake through her body. This goes deeper than that. Much deeper into something old. Something I helped to create. Something that still lives inside her bones.

I tighten my hold on her. Hating that I did this and hating that a sick and twisted part of me loves that I still affect her so deeply. I’m fucked. I know it, but I can’t help it. Deep down, I still want these tears to be mine, because everything about her is mine.

Right now, I don’t know how to fix it, and I sure as fuck don’t know how to love Haven without destroying her. But if she’s drowning tonight—I’m not letting her sink alone.

chapter

twenty-seven

“It’s easy to fake strength when no one sees you bleeding.” – Cyrus

CYRUS

It’s been a week since I gave Haven the envelope like it was a knife and told her to stab herself. And in that week, I’ve grown to understand her better than I ever did before.

She got up and cleaned the mess before anyone was awake. I didn’t feel or hear her leave, and she didn’t bring it up again. Not once.

No accusations. No screaming. No shattered glass thrown in my direction.

All of which I deserve.

Instead, Haven rebuilt. Quietly. Ruthlessly. Piece by piece, I watched her reform like a cathedral rising from ashes while the rest of us were still choking on smoke.

She has avoided me with surgical precision. She speaks only when the job requires it and has kept everything cold and professional. All business. All control. All the time.

After each show, she completely disappears and doesn’t attend anything to do with the VIP rooms, dinner, or anything else social. The guys haven’t mentioned it, but they notice.

For years, I thought nothing phased her. Haven Gaillard walked through life untouchable, and it pissed me the fuck off. I always felt like I was falling, while she pranced around, graceful and untarnished.

Turns out I was wrong. That calm of hers isn’t just strength, but armor. It’s how she survives.

While I’m busy collapsing under the weight of my own ghosts. Haven is learning how to gather the broken pieces and glue them back together. One careful shard at a time.

I drown. She stitches herself back together and keeps walking and pretends the ocean never tried to swallow her whole.