Gone #2
From me.
And if they do just that? Find her body and I have to accept that she’s gone where I can’t flirt and tease and promise her wordlessly that I haven’t given up on her?
I know that I’m well past the time to inject another sedative when the idea of buying a commercial-grade deep freezer and installing it in the basement so that I can keep Haven with me always sounds like a brilliant plan.
Relaxing my hands, I grab for the injectable.
My good buddy Sebastien didn’t think it was a smart idea to give me a bottle of sleeping pills, and he passed that message along to Adrian.
Bas was too worried that I’d lose hope, that I’d swallow them all.
Just because he got all mopey after the shit Julia put him through, that doesn’t mean I’d give up.
Hell, if Dallas survived losing his Lucy the way he did—watching his girlfriend accept another Offering because Jack Collins didn’t think she was good enough for his boy and he made it so she’d go—there isn’t anything Connor Heyward can’t do.
Except fully accept that he’ll never have Haven Smith. Because even if I did? I wouldn’t kill myself.
The rest of Harmony Heights, though? The goddamn world?
Good fucking luck.
My fingers close around the slender vial.
When I’m in my right mind, I would never contemplate suicide.
Then again, I lost my damn mind the moment I understood that Haven was missing.
That’s why I only bring one injection into the room with me when I admit defeat, searching for sleep.
I uncap it, but before I can pull up my sleeve and jab it in my bicep, my phone buzzes.
My heart pounds so violently, I swear I can feel the echoes of the pain throughout my entire body.
I can’t help it. Every time the phone rings or a text comes through, when someone bangs on my door or tries to get in touch via DM, a tiny part of me hopes that it’s Haven trying to get in contact with me.
That maybe she needs me, that she made a mistake, that—wherever she is—she wants me to come get her and bring her home.
Dropping the syringe, I reach for my phone, shuddering in absolute disappointment when I see Bas’s name on the screen. Why? Why is he calling me? He knows better than to interrupt me when I’m searching, unless—
I answer the phone. “Hello? Bas? What’s going on?”
There’s a pause on the other end before he says softly, “Jesus fucking Christ, Con. When was the last time you got some sleep?”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
Otherwise maybe Haven will be.
Six weeks. Forty-two days. I know her. She never would have left. Something happened. Someone took her, and no matter what it takes, I’m going to get her back.
I’ve hired investigators of my own. I nagged the fuck out of Jack in the beginning, believing the King when he said the Order would do anything to make sure an Offering wasn’t in any danger.
I’ve trusted my bros to help me when I physically couldn’t continue in the search because, apart from me, no one seems to give a shit what happened to Haven Smith.
That’s why, when Bas says, “Any update today? Any news?,” I don’t bite his head off like I really, really want to.
Instead, I force my jaw to work as I spit out: “No.”
It’s true. That’s how it’s been for ages. No news, no leads, no sightings… not even a ransom demand or—God forbid—a body. There’s been nothing, and it’s that nothing that scares the ever loving shit out of me.
If… and I hate even think it… if she was dead, I’d know what to do: kill the fuckers who took her from me.
If someone snatched her and was holding her for money, I’d pay it in a heartbeat.
If she was being held for some sort of leverage—because she was an Offering and a pedigreed name in the Order—I’d trade myself, taking her place.
But nothing? Nothing means that I don’t know where to aim my violence, and there’s so much fucking violence in me these days.
I’m basically a ticking time bomb, and the worst part is that, when I force myself to leave my house to broaden my search, only four other people in the whole world can see past the good-natured grins and easygoing nature to recognize how dangerous I am.
Bas, of course, is one of them.
On the other side of the call, he curses under his breath. “Connor, I…” He pauses. “You know I’ll do anything to help, right? That I’m here for you.”
I do. Like me, Sebastien Reynolds is a son of a founding family.
His is a little higher up than mine… he’s a Reynolds, for fuck’s sake…
but he’s also a second son. His older brother, Alexandre, is expected to carry on the family name, even if Alex is quickly approaching thirty himself without an Offering to Claim.
Bas, though… a long time ago, he decided he wanted dick all to do with the Order.
He’s been a town outcast ever since, sticking to fucking the Used, determined to never take a bride—especially after what happened with Julia.
But if there’s one thing I can say about Bas, he might hop on his bike and take off for the mountains outside of Harmony Heights when it gets to be too much in town, but he’s loyal as hell.
I don’t doubt that he’s going to do whatever it takes to help me on my mission, but the way he says my name like that…
there’s a hint of suggestion to my frantic and exhausted mind that he’s beginning to think that I have to accept the inevitable. That I should probably move on.
That I might need to prepare myself for the possibility that Haven… she’s not coming back.
Know what? I’ll burn this entire fucking city to the ground before I do that.
Despite the heat behind it, the thought reaches me with such serene acceptance that the easy violence doesn't even surprise me anymore.
Six weeks ago, it would've. Then again, six weeks ago, I was still pretending to be a normal person, hiding my true intentions behind a pair of blue eyes, a polo shirt, and a crooked grin.
Now?
Now I understand why people become monsters, if they aren’t born that way already.
Here, trapped in the basement of my house, contemplating using my pocketknife to slice off the tongue of one of my oldest friends before he can suggest that I give up on my girl, I’m Harmony Heights’s worst nightmare.
I would never; at least, I’d like to think that I wouldn’t. That I’m not sure I can trust my own actions, I say, “Then keep looking, Bas,” disconnect the call, and pick up the syringe. I lift it to my mouth, use my teeth to remove the cap, spit it out on the floor, and jab the needle into my arm.
The sedative is definitely the good stuff. My eyes are already fluttering closed, my breath slowing down even as I jerk the injectable out of my arm and let the empty vial fall to the hardwood floor.
The last thing I remember before blackness overtakes me is Haven’s soft grey eyes pleading with me, her pouting lips formed to whisper a wordless plea, her soul reaching out to me, imploring me to find her.
I will, Haven. I will.
I promise.