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I hate how that one syllable from her transports me back to the scared girl, the one who was fearful of forever being a disappointment to her mother. Who was so hard on herself for never measuring up. Who only had failed relationships because she didn't know how to ask for what she needed and go after what she wanted.
I hate the way she made me feel, the way she continues to make me feel.
But underneath all of that, I think I might actually hate her.
And that—that is the scariest thing I've ever admitted to myself.
Her perfectly sculpted brows rise. “You're not? Why are you dressed in gym clothes then?”
My lashes sweep closed in a prolonged blink, and I do my best to let her dig roll off my back the way droplets of water rolled down Bane's abs last night. That man doesn’t believe in closing the door when he showers. The reminder of him centers me quicker than anything.
And when I open my eyes again, I feel calmer.
I look at the guy standing next to my mother. He's dressed in a navy suit, white shirt, and a dark blue tie. Dark hair slicked back and sunglasses perched on the top of his head. He has the kind of face that looks like he shaves every morning only for his stubble to come in thick by dinner time.
“Who's your friend, Mom?”
She drops her finger from the door and gestures to him. “Oh, this is a friend of mine. Evangeline, Detective Barry Wallace. Baz, meet my youngest daughter, Evangeline.”
My back snaps straight, and I nearly strangle the doorknob in my grip. I stare at my mother, suspicion oozing from me in thick, syrupy waves.
“Why did you bring a detective to my house?”
“My mother's house,” Mom corrects me.
“Why did you bring a detective to Magnolia Lane?” I amend, the only compromise I'm willing to make right now.
“I already told you. My sister called to tell me you let our mother's house get robbed. So I brought a proper detective to investigate.” She sighs through her nose, conveying just how put out she feels right now. “I can't believe you're making me air our family's private business on the porch like this.”
I scoff and roll my eyes without thinking. And then I feel the familiar sharp sting across my cheekbone.
My eyes well with tears, and I blink them away quickly. I don't want to give her the satisfaction of seeing me upset. Even physical weakness is unacceptable to her.
I've spent too much time in Rosewood I think. Too much time expressing myself freely around the St. James men, because if I'd been thinking clearly. I never would've rolled my eyes at her like that.
I cover my cheek with my left hand and clear my throat, keeping my gaze trained on the lapel of my mother's suit jacket. Shame rolls over me like a blanket of chainmail—heavy and sharp. I feel like I can't catch my breath under the weight of it.
I clear my throat and take a step back, pulling open the door with me. I open my mouth to invite them in, but the words get stuck in the back of my throat, emotion holding them hostage.
I chance a glance at my mother, catching the gleam of triumph in her gaze. She takes a step inside the house, turning to motion Detective Wallace in with her.
Then I feel it.
The shift in the air a second before his warmth blankets my back.
Bane.
He's been sneaking into my bed every night and leaving before I'm awake. If he didn't leave me sticky notes and iced coffees every morning, I'd be tempted to think I'd dreamt him up every night.
But he's real and he's here, and I've never been more grateful for his timing.
Relief hits me so hard, I feel faint with it. I sag into him instantly.
“Who the fuck are you?” His voice is a low rumble against my back.
I see the shift in Mom immediately. Her upper lip curls toward her nose in disgust and she glares at him—well as much of him as she can see given the way I'm practically plastered to him.
“Excuse me? Who are you and what are you doing in my mother's house?” She turns toward the man next to her, the dismissal clear. “Detective Wallace, perhaps you can escort this person off our property so my daughter and I can have a chat. Family business.”
