Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
fawn
It’s nine-p.m.
The moon perches high, bright and white, through the nursery window. A cloud ghosts across its bright white face, mimicking breath, pluming the sky and stars.
Ash, named after my mum, suckles at my breast. I envision the engagement card in my mind and the words, ‘the only daughter I ever had.’ My foster mother didn’t have children of her own, so she wouldn’t have breastfed, but maybe my real mum used to stare at the moon, baby Fawn clutched to her chest, feeding eagerly.
I’m sure she did—her bohemian beliefs were part of her identity. Crystals. Dreamcatchers. Magic.
Mother Earth.
She was wonderfully strange, a conspiracy theorist, with a deep dislike of authority figures.
I laugh inwardly—yet here I am. Her daughter, who adores the command and guidance of an authoritarian man. If she had a Clay Butcher, knew what it was like to feel safe, allowed to be eccentric and raw, she would bend to the intoxicating pull of a strong leader as well. She would have been like me.
But she lost her way…
Early motherhood, poverty, and drugs took hold of her.
If she had a Clay Butcher to call her own, perhaps she would have been the nurturing figure I always longed for—always present, loving, and playful.
I can envision that version of her, tender and attentive.
I’ll paint that false memory into existence.
Make it real.
Make it mine.
I lift my phone—she didn’t have a fancy phone like me—lazily looking at the display, swiping through the rehearsal dinner Pinterest board.
That was the easiest to plan because it’s all Clay-centric—cigars, moody colours, wood, edible gold chocolates—which I love.
I love making it all about him. Then I swipe to the wedding board.
Peach Juliet Roses.
Gold invitations.
Peach bridesmaids’ dresses.
My dress!
My sleepy gaze lingers on the wedding dress of my dreams. Ivory silk clinging to the pretty Parisian model’s frame, long sleeves, a high neckline, a mature, modest dress that I hope the Family will approve of, delicate beadwork, pearls in a line down the back.
Six months’ worth of waiting. Of measuring tape against my skin.
Of fabric swatches mailed across oceans.
I have only felt the mock-up dress against my body.
My phone suddenly vibrates in my palm, night-mode quiet, a notification dropping from the top bar. I squint at it, reading the words.
Bronson?
Group Chat?
Sir?
Wedding Talk!
My cheeks lift as I tap the notification, fingers eager against the screen, heart picking up pace. The chat expands, filling my display with a blue bubble.
Bronson: Welcome to my wedding chat!
Fawn: Hi!!!
Bronson: Hey Fawn! I know he doesn’t seem like he’s much fun, but he used to be. I swear it.
I try not to jig with glee, aware of Ash finishing his snack and drifting in and out of slumber.
Fawn: I am all ears.
Bronson: He has always been an arrogant son-of-a-Butcher. Found out I had a knack for cooking. Thought he could do better. Tried his hand at dinner one night, showing off in front of the Family. The pasta ended up chipping an eighty-year-old Nonna’s dentures.
Sir: They were al dente, mate.
Fawn: Hi, Sir! You’re in the house! Just down the hall! This is so cute. We have never done this.
Sir: I’m pleased you’re pleased.
Bronson: Al dente? More like al dente in her dentures.
Sir: Careful.
Fawn: Eeee! More!
Bronson: Thought he could beat our old Don at Blackjack! Started counting cards. Basically Sicilian suicide.
Sir: I was practicing advanced probability.
Bronson: Won everything on the table but had to give it all back because it’s rude. You don’t beat the Don, even if you do. Unless you use a club, then a spade. Boom.
Fawn: More. More. Is there anything he can’t do?
Bronson: Fly. Trust me, when he tried to jump from the balcony to the pool the night of his Prom, he learned fast.
Sir: I was seventeen.
Sir: And I made the jump.
Bronson: Only because you had a soft landing on the hedges, beautiful brother.
Sir: Fawn is tired, Bronson, get to the point.
Bronson: So, we have flowers. It’s cake time. Do we have a cake? I’m not just the sexiest Butcher, but I’m also quite the culinary expert.
Fawn: I’ve done one tasting. I booked a cake, but I didn’t really love it. Like, love it love it. Just. It was okay. I’m picky with cakes.
Bronson: That’s a no. Perfect! Tomorrow. You. Me. Cake for two. But it’ll actually be three, ‘cause Sister Cassidy wants to come. Food is where she shines.
Fawn: Yes, please. Sir?
Sir: Fine. You know the rules, Bronson.
Bronson: Aye, aye, Captain. I’ll have the cotton-wool packed and ready to wrap her in.
I’m still blinking at my phone when my skin prickles, the heat of his eyes a tangible caress along my skin. I lift my gaze and meet his from in the doorway.
Phone still in his hand by his thigh.
I beam. “You were in a group chat.” I giggle quietly, eyes darting between Ash on my nipple and Sir, bare-chested and in casual jeans.
They are slung low across his hips—if he didn’t have the most perfect structural integrity with those V-shaped muscles, his notorious shooting jeans would flash more of his pelvic tattoo, more virile parts.
Amused by the big bad Clay Butcher in a group chat with his brother and his fiancé from only a few rooms away, I add, “That is very normal of you, Sir.”
His smile is smooth and easy.
As he approaches, tucking his phone into his front pocket, the subtle scent of the basement gun range clings to his skin, sweat and smoke. He is a physical embodiment of contradictions, both deadly and now tender for me, wrapped in the same impossibly handsome package.
“Clay Normal Butcher,” is all he says, in that deep and dangerous tone that denotes he’s anything but normal.
Watching me nurse with the adoration that dreams are made of—Disney couldn’t draw the reverence and warmth in his gaze—he smiles.
I sigh. “I love you, Sir.”
“I love you, too, sweet girl,” he returns, never hovering on that declaration, never allowing my expressions of love to echo, needy and insecure, without response and assurance. He knows me. Knows I need it.
At my side, my everything gazes down, his knuckles smoothing my cheek, his eyes on little Ash.
“Looks like he’s finished,” he says. He scoops Ash from my arms and leans him against his shoulder to burp him, his large, tattooed hands supporting his son’s crown, thumb combing instinctively through the fine hair.
I watch as he joins us for our snack time, as he walks to the other recliner, sitting down and lazily stretching his long legs out in front of him.
My heart feels so big, it might detonate, a pinata of butterflies. Happy.
Collecting Luca, I offer him my other nipple this time. Though he is a more enthusiastic feeder than Ash, latching immediately, fists pawing at my breast.
“Dominant boy,” I say, then look at Sir. “He’s going to be like you. Probably a handful.” Like he isn’t already—I have to swap my nipples halfway through to even out the let-down or I’d be lopsided and bruised.
He’s strong.
And a vampire.
“Ash might surprise you, little deer. He’s very observant. Careful. Understands what his smile does to you. How it makes your heart race. Such a clever, boy. I was a quiet baby, apparently. Max was the handful at this age.”
My heart balloons.
“Ooh, tell me more.”