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I need to know how she became the woman she did, what made her do it. I need to confront her on it, need to assure myself that whatever is in her, I have none of it.
That I’m not in danger of becoming like her.
“No, Grace. I’m not going to let you anywhere near that fucking psychopath.” Hale spits out the last word. “She’s too dangerous—”
“Hale,” I say firmly, “that psychopath is my mother. That psychopath who kills without remorse wants something from me. And if talking to that psychopath is the only way I can help with this, the only way we can prevent her from taking more lives—because she’s not going to stop at just your father and Leland—then I’m not going to cower in fear. I’m not going to let her think for even a second that she can get away with what she’s doing. I’m not afraid of her.”
I hardly realize that my voice has been rising until my last words die out. The room goes quiet, filled with nothing but the whisper of our breathing.
Hale doesn’t respond, but the tempest of anger on his face tells me enough. Without a word, he turns and strides across the room, hurling his glass against the wall. Glass shatters and whiskey drips down the plaster in slow moving trails as Hale storms out, leaving the rest of us behind.
My heart thunders in my chest. I haven’t seen that kind of wrath in Hale since the night his father died. That night, his anger and pain nearly overwhelmed him, a beast rising up inside him like a feral animal.
I hate that my mother’s actions are twisting the knife in his heart.
But I can’t give in on this.
After a few seconds of silence, Ciro gets up and follows after Hale, presumably to talk him down. Now alone with Zaid and Lucas, I can’t think of anything else to say. All the air seems to have been sucked out of the room.
“He’ll come around,” Lucas says softly. “Eventually.”
“I know.” It’s all I can manage.
“He’s just protective,” Zaid mutters. “Like all of us. We only want the best for you, and when he sees that this is the best thing, he’ll respect that.”
“Do you think it’s best?” I twist a little on the couch to see him better.
He blows out a breath, shaking his head. “Fuck. I hate to use the word ‘best’ and ‘Camilla’ in the same sentence. But what you said makes sense. It may only be the best out of an array of entirely shitty options, but that still makes it better than any of the others.”
“And it has to be your choice, Grace,” Lucas adds. “None of us have to like it, but we can’t take the decision away from you. Hale respects you enough to know that. Just give him time.”
I offer them a small smile, more for their sakes than my own. A smile feels foreign, unwanted on my face, like a stranger. How long has it been since I’ve smiled—truly, genuinely?
Rising from the couch, I walk over to Lucas and press a kiss to his lips, allowing myself to find some solace there, an ounce of comfort. His hands frame my face, lingering on my jaw even as we break apart. Stepping away, I turn to kiss his brother the same way, breathing in his vanilla and musk scent.
“You okay?” Zaid asks, looking down at me as his fingers run through my hair.
“No.” I give him a wan, tired smile. “But I will be. We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay? You’ll… help me with Hale?”
He gives me a lopsided grin. “Kitten, I don’t think you’ll need help. I’ve seen you go toe-to-toe with that man, and I think you’re one of the only people in the world who can. Besides, he’ll come around to it on his own. He just—” His grin slips, his eyes growing serious as he tugs me a little closer. “He’s still recovering from Damian’s death. He doesn’t want to lose you too.”
“I don’t plan on getting lost,” I whisper.
“Good. Because we wouldn’t survive it.”
He kisses me one more time, and unlike our last kiss, which was soft and comforting, this one is hard, almost vicious. It makes me realize in a rush that everything Hale is feeling, these two men are feeling too. Maybe Ciro as well. They all just deal with it in their own ways.
I grip his shirt, rising up on my tiptoes to give back as good as I get, like I’m trying to prove that I’m not going anywhere.
When we break apart, I feel his body shudder slightly. He releases me and I step back. It’s only early evening, and part of me wants to stay down here, wrapped up in the embrace of these two men. But my head is a mess, and I know I can’t just fuck it away this time.
I need space. I need to think. To truly process what it could mean if I accept my mother’s demand and agree to meet with her.
“Goodnight,” I murmur. Then I leave them behind in the room and make my way back to my own.
The first thing I do is turn on the shower as hot as it will go, wincing as I step under the spray. Even though I didn’t touch Leland’s body, I still feel dirty somehow, imaginary streaks of blood clinging to my skin.
I stand under the water until the steady stream grows cool, then tilt my face directly up toward the spray, blocking out the world. When I finally emerge from the shower, my skin is pink and scrubbed raw, but my head doesn’t feel much more clear.
