Chapter 81
Clara
I’ve never been in this rental property before, but based on what Trips had said, this one was supposed to be a dump. Instead, the faint smell of sawdust and paint lingers in every room, clean walls and floors lit up by new fixtures and warm bulbs.
“Well, shit,” Trips says under his breath, looking around the spotless interior.
We’re all going to be rocking either flip-flops or leftover Christmas slippers, sweats, and novelty t-shirts, at least until the stores open tomorrow. RJ made sure the food is all shelf-stable. Dry cereal for breakfast might make Walker cry when he sees it, but it’s the best we could do.
Trips and I add our bags before we go exploring. Upstairs, we find two twin mattresses, and Trips and RJ move them into the same room so we can all be together. There’s not much sleeping space, but it’s not like we’re going to sleep, anyway. We’re all on high alert.
I find a bunch of pillows set up like a sitting room, and move those to the bedroom, too, but it’s clear we won’t get to spread out.
Not that we’ve spread out much since I got back.
I wasn’t kidding about loving my limpets.
I need them all around me to feel safe enough to doze off for the handful of hours of sleep I’ve been able to get before the nightmares attack.
For a house put together by Jansen, I’m surprised it’s so bland.
Except for some potted plants and a lime tree, it’s a perfectly boring rental property.
It’s exactly what Trips would have wanted had he been here to help, but knowing that Jansen did all this work by himself, while healing from a mental health episode and a gunshot wound?
I want to hold him. Too bad he and Walker aren’t back yet.
I call first dibs on the shower, my inner thighs sticky and my skin coated in dried sweat.
It had been such a great night. Of course Bryce had to ruin it. That’s all he ever seems to do—ruin things. Me, Mattie, my sense of security and confidence, my home.
My scrubbing turns vicious as I try to exorcise my anger in a safe way, knowing there’s nothing we can do right now, as much as we wish there was.
We don’t know where he is. We don’t know what he has planned next.
He’s a mosquito we can hear buzzing in the room, but which never gets close enough to squash.
And I want to squash him.
If nothing else, months at that estate have inoculated me against the sight of blood and guts. I want his blood and guts smeared on the concrete.
I thought I was a good person.
Maybe I’m not.
And maybe I’m okay with that.
RJ’s waiting when I get out of the shower, offering me his dress shirt to dry with, his exhausted smile mirroring my own. “I can’t find the towels Jansen says should be here,” he says.
Bundling him in a hug, not worrying about getting him wet, I whisper against his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for, Sugar.”
“My crazy ex burned down our house on your birthday.”
“Yup. It was still the best birthday I’ve had.”
I huff out a laugh, pulling on my giant sweats and pink U of M shirt, my hair short enough that I figure I don’t have to worry about it for now.
“The guys are on their way back. Fluffington is staying at the vet’s for now. Apparently, Jansen called Emma in a panic when the prince started coughing on the ride there, and she said she could take him if we need her to.”
“I’ve got a good friend.”
“You do.”
He presses a kiss to my lips, then urges me out the door, the water whooshing on a moment later.
I stand in the unfamiliar hallway, dizzy from exhaustion, the scent of burned chemicals and wood wafting from where the guys are gathered.
I’m not ready to join anyone. To pretend that the best night of my life isn’t now one of the worst nights.
It’s not at the top of the list, though.
Bryce will have to work stupid-hard to break that barrier.
My time at Trips’ father’s estate has more blood and fear coated memories than is healthy, with my dad dying in my arms taking the number one spot.
Almost losing Jansen is a solid second. The number of times I almost lost my own life, or killing Smith, or chopping off Trevor’s fingers, well, they’re all up there.
High enough that our house burning down hardly registers with anything besides weariness and muted anger.
Soft footsteps shake me free of my thoughts, a surprisingly mostly put-together Walker stepping in front of me, his hands rubbing my arms where they lay limp against my sides. “How are you doing, Princess?”
I lean forward and press my forehead to his chest. “Tired. Of all of this.”
Strong arms band around me and stay there, voices drifting around us, the hum of the shower muting any need to decipher what’s being said.
Eventually, Walker shifts, tilting my chin up to kiss my lips with a gentleness my weary soul needs. Then he scoops me into his arms, and I nuzzle into him. “You know I can walk, right?”
“Of course. But I want to carry you across the threshold.”
My heart stills in my chest, my hold growing tighter even as I keep my tone light and teasing. “That’s supposed to be the front door, isn’t it?”
“I missed that opportunity, so this will have to be the next best thing.” He pauses outside our makeshift bedroom, dark eyes shining as he looks down at me. “Forever?” he asks.
“Forever,” I say.
His lips take mine as he crosses the threshold, the movement laden with the weight of a holy ceremony—a weight it deserves.
I married three more men tonight. Maybe not in any way that the world would recognize, but in my heart, I have four husbands. Four criminals whose jaded hearts are mine to keep. And my broken artist took a moment in all this disaster to remind me that today is a good day. Even after everything.
Because today I claimed them, and they claimed me, in every way that matters.
He lays me down on one of the mattresses, tucking me close, big spoon as always, his bicep my pillow. “Sleep. We’ll figure this all out in the morning,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
So, I do, drifting off to the murmur of voices I trust, safe in the arms of one of my loves.