Chapter 24 #3
When he opens them again, the rose walls and golden light give his dark irises an almost deep red color.
“She didn’t let me.”
I wait, and thankfully, he keeps going. “She didn’t want me back.”
Oh, Hatter.
The ache that pierces my chest at that is completely unjustified, and I shove it away. I watch him rub the back of his neck, waiting for the rest.
“She was afraid, I think. I don’t blame her. My family…” He blows out a breath. “I’m a lot to handle on my own. Add them to the mix?” He chuckles. “You probably understand something about complicated families.”
I huff with a sad smile. “Yeah. God help any man who goes toe to toe with my parents. My dad especially.”
Kian McKennon by himself is a lot. With my mom at his side, they’d smite the guy down before he finished introducing himself. Which is why I’m still surprised my father agreed to any of that Fury mess to begin with.
“Sounds like a fun challenge.” Hatter gives me a curious grin that I can’t quite figure out, but then he shakes his head.
“Anyway. I gave her up.” A quiet finality settles in his voice. “I want her safe and happy. If giving her that means never having her, then… that’s what I’ll do.”
My romance-loving heart aches. “But what if she doesn’t know how you feel? Maybe you could try—”
He shakes his head. “Nah, Alice. That ship’s sailed. She’s gone to live a whole new life. Happy without me. Pretty sure she hasn’t even thought about me in a long, long, long time.” He pauses as if he just realized that himself. Then his shoulder lifts. “I have to move on, I guess.”
I sigh, dropping my shoulders. “So yours is a tragedy then. Dang.”
Something twinkles in his eye, and he turns on me with a slow, wicked smile. “I bet you’re one of those girls who loves romance books, aren’t you?”
My eyes widen, and I’m sure my cheeks are redder than the walls. But I’m proud of my books, what reading did for me years ago, so I lift my head high.
“Yeah I do. I love them actually.”
“Yeah? I’m a recent fan myself, actually.
” His smile turns genuinely interested as he shifts to face me fully, propping his temple on his fist, elbow braced on the loveseat back.
With the two of us turned toward each other like this, the chair has become a significantly smaller piece of furniture than it was two minutes ago.
“What kind’s your favorite? There are different kinds, right? ”
I shiver, but resist the urge to lean into the warmth radiating from him. With the air filter on, the room has gotten noticeably cooler.
That’s the only reason why I shiver, of course, and not because the last romance series I finished gave me six books and four days of very specific material to imagine.
“I like all kinds really,” I manage. “Dark romance is my favorite.”
“Into the bad boys, are you?” He smirks, and I swear there’s something almost knowing in it. “Tell me, Alice. Is there a bad boy you imagine in particular when you read books?”
My eyes widen.
All my life I’ve been able to picture characters exactly the way the author intended. My imagination is vivid, something that helped once upon a time in a dark warehouse far, far away. Imagining different stories kept me sane when they were trying to drive me mad.
Up until six months ago, every main male character looked exactly the way they were supposed to.
Until the night of Luna’s graduation party.
The guy I danced with wore a blue mask, had dark black hair, was tall, broad-shouldered—not totally unlike Hatter, if I’m honest. He wore gloves and a suit jacket that went all the way to his jaw.
Thanks to the darkness of the speakeasy and the copious amounts of shots I’d pilfered from Uncle Jaime’s bar, I now barely remember the way he looked.
But I remembered the way he felt. The way my stomach leaped, how I’d desperately wanted to kiss him. We’d gotten close, but he received a text and had to excuse himself from the dance, leaving me an ache in my core and chest that I haven’t trusted myself to analyze.
Since that night, every time I’d imagined characters in my books, it was a hazy vision of the blue-masked boy I reached for.
Then I met Hatter.
Now every time I read a book, he’s the main male character, my MMC of choice. Which means every time I think about a book in very specific circumstances, I’m thinking about him.
“Answer the question, bunny.”
Oh my God, is it obvious? Can he tell?
It’s almost on the tip of my tongue to tell him that’s enough questions, wrap it up, but I’ve leaned into him, and his hand is right beside my thigh on the loveseat now, his fingers close enough to touch.
His eyes have darkened—that shift I didn’t understand in romance books until approximately right now—and his voice roughens when he asks again.
“Who do you imagine, Alice? When you read romance books… who do you imagine?”
I could lie. I could say pass. I could simply leave, if I wanted to—do anything to get out of giving him the truth.
But where’s the adventure in that?
I lick my lips, then take a leap, just like every heroine I’ve ever rooted for.
“You.”