Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
Melissa
She smiled at me. It's small—barely a twitch of her lips when I set a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table—but it's there. Real. Mine.
Hella catches it too. Biting into his cookie with a satisfied grin. He’s been better than I could have ever imagined. Creating little spaces in time where she and I are together. Without it being obvious and without pressure.
Smart bastard.
“Good?” I ask, not realizing how much it means to me to have her seal of approval.
She doesn't answer. Ducking her head and swiping a cookie. But she doesn't hide behind Hella. Doesn't flinch when I pull out the chair across from her.
Progress.
“Melissa makes the best cookies,” Hella says, casual as anything. “Better than the bakery.”
Her eyes flick to me, curious. It’s a struggle every day not to wrap my arms around her and tell her how sorry I am for failing her.
“I own a bakery.” The words feel strange, like I'm introducing myself to a stranger. Which I am. “It's called Cyanide & Sugar. Maybe we could go sometime?”
She tilts her head, considering. Then leans over and whispers something in Hella's ear, so quiet I can't make it out.
“She wants to know if you have cake.” Hella's mouth quirks. “Apparently Garret told her about the one you made with him.”
My heart stutters, hope blooming through my veins. It's the first thing she's asked about me. The first real form of communication.
“I do.” I keep my voice steady, trying not to scare her off with my desperation. “I could make your favourite, too. Do you have a favourite?”
Another whisper to Hella.
“She said she likes all cakes except ones with raisins in them.”
I blink back tears, forcing a smile. “No raisins! Got it!”
She nods once before returning to her cookie. But it's enough. For now, it's enough.
Three days later, she talks to me directly for the first time.
“Why did you leave me?”
Her words hit like a freight train. We’ve been out here for an hour with the ambience of the flowing stream and chirping birds. She’s been colouring in silence while I’ve pretended to read.
I close my book, buying time to figure out how to answer. How do you explain to a five-year-old that at the time, you thought you couldn't keep her, that you thought she'd have a better life without you?
You don't.
“I didn't want to.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “I wanted to keep you so badly, but I was very young, and I thought... I thought you'd be better with someone else.”
“Was I?” Those green eyes—my eyes—pin me in place. “Safe?”
The words 'not from him’ stick in my throat, too heavy to force out.
“You are now.” I reach out slowly, instincts taking over. When she doesn't pull away, I brush a strand of hair behind her ear and blow out a slow, steady breath. “And I'm never leaving you again. I promise.”
She flicks the colouring pencil between her fingers. “Promises break.”
“Some do.” I won't lie to her. “But this one won't. You want to know why?”
She nods, wary but listening.
“Because Hella's scarier than anything in the world, and he promised to help me keep you safe. And Hella doesn't break his promises.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “He's not that scary.”
“No?” I lean in, eyes narrowed. “You should see him when someone takes something that's his.”
She giggles—actually fucking giggles—and the sound hits me wrong. Too clean. Too innocent for this place.
Hella walks through the front door with a tray of sandwiches, stopping when he sees us. His eyes track the space between us, how she hasn't backed away, and his face goes soft for half a second.
“Food's ready.” He drops the tray on the table. “Rugrat, you want lemonade or juice?”
“Lemonade.” Her voice comes out small but steady. “Please.”
“Magic word. Nice.” He messes up her hair before heading back inside.
The way they are together makes me want things I shouldn't want. Things that will hurt me for even hoping.
She grabs a sandwich, takes a bite, then says quiet enough I almost miss it, “I like him.”
“Me too.” The words slip out before I can stop them. Stupid. But not a lie. “He's one of the good ones.”
“Are you his girlfriend?”
It catches me off guard. “I... we're complicated.”
“What's that mean?” Her head tilts as she bites into her sandwich.
Good question, kid.
“It means we're figuring things out.” I pause, shuffling words around in my head to see which one would make more sense. None of them do. I never want to lie to her again. “We both care about you. That's not complicated.”
She considers this, chewing thoughtfully. “Do you love him?”
I nearly choke on my water. “That's a big question.”
“You don't have to answer.” She shrugs, too mature for her age. “Just wondering.”
I watch Hella through the window, moving around his kitchen in a way I'd never seen before. He's been patient, protective, gentle in ways I didn't know he could be. I'd be lying if I said it hasn't shifted something in me. Made me see past the violence and danger to the man underneath.
Do I love him?
“I might,” I admit, more to myself than to her. “But love's complicated too.”
“Everything's complicated with you.” She says matter-of-factly, without judgment, and I can't help but laugh.
“Yeah. It really is.”
Later that night, she's back in Hella's room. He told me she likes it in there because she doesn’t need to check every two seconds to see if he’s still there.
Which means I'm no longer camped outside his door, but in the guest room down the hall, lying awake and staring at the ceiling while my body screams for the man a few doors away.
We haven't touched since she came back into my life. Haven't even come close. It’s not even crossed either of our minds when we’re with her, but every night, when she’s asleep and the house is quiet, dark, still, I lay here.
Aching, replaying the way his hands felt on my skin, the way he growled my name when he came.
Focus on your daughter. Not on his dick.
There’s a soft knock on my door, and I freeze.
“Come in.”
Hella’s big form slips inside, shutting off the dim hallway light. He's shirtless again—seems to be his default state around the house.
“She's asking for you,” he says roughly. “Wants you to read to her.”
My skin prickles. “Really?”
“Really.” He leans against the door. Silence. My heart slows to a sluggish beat, the heaviness of his gaze weighted, even in the low light from my lamp. “You coming?”
I scramble out of bed, suddenly aware I'm wearing the same shirt of his I did the first night I stayed here. His eyes track down my body, lingering on my bare legs before snapping back to my face.
“Melissa.” My name has always fallen from his lips in a warning, whether we were between the sheets or he was dragging my drunk ass away from the clubhouse.
But never like this. Like a promise.
“Don't.” I brush past him, but he catches my wrist, pulling me back. We're too close. With his chest against my arm, his scent clinging to my skin. Soap and lavender with the subtle hint of cigarette. Since she’s been here, he’s religiously scrubbed his hands after every one.
“We need to talk about this.” His thumb traces circles against my wrist, and by God, I should not be able to feel it travel up my arm. “About us.”
“There is no us.” At some point, I’m going to have to admit that I self-sabotage more than I like to admit. Right now, isn’t it. “There's this. Her.”
“Bullshit.”
I yank my hand free, putting distance between us before I do something stupid like kiss him. “She's waiting.”
He lets me go, but I feel his eyes on me all the way down the hall.
I can’t let myself go there. Not right now.
Not when I know that if he ripped himself away from me after I’ve allowed myself to free-fall, I’d hit the pavement with enough gore it’d make Dexter Morgan fucking squirm.
Having her in my life means I have to take myself seriously.
I can’t just rely on a bottle of Hennesy and someone’s father’s dick in my guts to pull my shit together.
There’s no more joking about my reliance on alcohol, or ignoring the fact that, yeah, I may have a problem just like my father did. I have to be real.
I push the door open slowly. She’s leaning against the headboard, surrounded by pillows and stuffed animals that Hella took her to buy the first week we were here.
Her blonde hair is braided messy over her shoulder, my heart squeezing in my chest when the image of Hella taking the time to do something so gentle flickers through my mind.
She looks so small in Hella's massive bed.
“Hi.” I hover in the doorway. Even though he said she asked for me, I still want her to know that she’s in control of the people she allows in her circle from here on out. Even if that means me. “Hella said you asked for me?”
She nods, patting the space beside her. “Will you read to me?”
I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, taking the book she pushes into my hands. It's a battered copy of Hairy Maclary from Donaldson's Dairy, the corners rounded and pages gone soft from her fingers.
“This was my favourite when I was little,” I tell her, cracking it open. The familiar illustrations hit me somewhere deep. “My sister used to force me to read it to her, but I secretly liked it.”
“Aunt Millie?”
“Yeah. Aunt Millie.” Millie's been a ghost these past weeks, barricaded in her room like the rest of us don't exist. “She's going through some stuff right now, but she loves you very much.”
“Everyone's going through stuff.” She wriggles deeper under the blankets. “That's what Hella says.”
I twist to find Hella propped in the doorway, arms crossed, studying us with that unreadable expression he's perfected.
“He's right.” I flatten the first page with my palm. “But sometimes stuff gets better. Ready?”