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“No.” She ambles towards the door, her purse hanging over her shoulder, bumping her hip against her slow gait. “He donated the money.”
Shocked, I turn to look at her. “What?”
“Yeah.” She grabs the hospital door. “The site is closed. And so he just donated it to, like, a charity for domestic violence or something.” A smile twitches at the corner of her lips, betraying her feigned indifference to Kenno. Rolling her eyes, she adds, “Guess he’s kind of okay.”
I smile a little at that. “Love issodumb.”
She is back to Chloe, pretending to have walls made of diamonds and confidence as potent as Intense by Gucci. “Whatever. Thanks for insisting I see”—She waves at the windowsill, overly projecting judgement that she only half feels— “all of this weirdness. I’m so glad you felt the need to share it with me at, like, four in the morning.”
“I wanted you to see it because I love you.”
“Yeah, and as I said, love is dumb.” She leans in to kiss me on the crown and leaves, but not before peering over her shoulder to shake her head through a smile. “So weird.”
As Chloe turns the corner, the raps of heavy, authoritarian shoes pulse down the hospital corridor like a forewarning to the staff that the Butcher men are back.
I watch Max, Clay, and Luca pass the room, a blur of black and denim, before suddenly blocking the corridor is Bronson Butcher, who halts in the open hospital room doorway.
I'm met with huge glowing turquoise-coloured eyes, red-lined, swollen and completely unhinged. And his head... He's bald—a shaved scalp to match his brother's. If I wasn’t still empty inside, I’m sure the ache in my chest would be my heart writhing in pain. I’ve never been a part of anything so sad, so devastating—this kind of anguish is a thing of nightmares.
I don't know what to say to him as he surveys the room, his jaw muscles threatening to bust through his skin. My eyebrows lift in surprise but not in confusion. He's not okay. None of us are.
Luca still doesn’t have a tie.
Clay has tears in his eyes.
Bronson shaved his head.
Max wants to rip his off.
And I'm staging Sylvanians.
Bronson walks to me—six-foot-five inches of tattoos and dangerous energy—and drops to his knees at my feet. Shocking the hell out of me, throwing my pulse up my neck, I lean backwards on instinct as he gets close, forcing intimacy. Wild blue-green eyes patterned in red marble stare directly into mine with a message.
I hold my breath as he says, “I like this space. The dolls. I like it all. And I like you.”
I nod, muted by shock.
“Will you give him this?” He stuffs a letter into my fist. “If I’m not here when he wakes up or if I can’t—” His pause has ominous meaning. “If I’m not safe to be around when he wakes up, please give him this,from me.”
My voice is small. “Why wouldn’t it be safe?”
“I’m not safe.” His eyes are so wild—explosive. “Not right now. Read it. If you want. You’ll understand better.”
I slowly nod, fighting my body’s response to be intimidated—fuck that—down-rightterrified of the volatility sparking in Bronson’s flaming blue-green gaze. “I’ll give it to him.”
I close my hand around the pages.
“Read it,” he states again.
“Okay,” I accept.
When he rises to his full height, releasing me from the arresting state he caused, I crane my neck to watch him. Sad. Slow. He disappears through the door like his body is acting on one impulse while his mind is set on another.
Fuck.
CHAPTERFORTY
bronson’s letter
