His To Keep

Twenty Heartache.

Adrian Rossetti

The air changes the second I step off the last stair.

It always does down here-colder, sharper, stripped of anything that resembles comfort. The kind of place built for work, not living. No warmth, no noise, no softness. Nothing that belongs anywhere near her.

My shoes hit the concrete in steady, echoing steps as I move down the corridor, the sound carrying ahead of me on purpose. I don't bother quieting it. I let it bounce off the walls, let it reach the door before I do.

They'll hear me coming.

Good.

I've got nine minutes.

Ten, technically-but she won't take ten.

She won't risk making me wait, not when she still watches me like she's trying to figure out what version of me she's going to get.

The thought irritates me more than it should, because the truth is, if she took half an hour, I'd still be standing there when she came back.

Waiting.

I push that thought aside as I reach the door, my hand already on the handle before I've fully stopped moving.

I shove it open harder than necessary.

The door slams against the wall with a sharp crack that cuts through the room, and every head snaps toward me instantly. The conversation that had been filling the space dies just as fast.

Good. At least they have enough sense for that.

I walk in without slowing, my strides long and deliberate, heading straight for the head of the table like I own every inch of the room-because I do.

Twenty eight of them sit there, my men, all supposedly busy running parts of my operation, and yet somehow they've found the time to sit around here together like this is a fucking social gathering.

My irritation spikes immediately.

I stop at the head of the table, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it uncomfortable before I speak.

"I called you down here," I say, voice low and even, "and somehow you still managed to make it look like a fucking birthday party."

A few of them shift in their seats, shoulders tightening, eyes dropping for half a second before forcing themselves back up to meet mine. No one speaks.

Smart.

I let my gaze move across them slowly, taking in every face, every flicker of tension. Then I lean forward slightly, resting my hands against the table.

"I've been hearing some things," I continue, quieter now, which only makes them listen harder. "And I don't like what I'm fucking hearing."

That gets their attention.

"It sounds like some of you have gotten a little too comfortable upstairs," I go on, my jaw tightening slightly. "A little too familiar."

My eyes land on Mason, and I don't miss the way his posture stiffens immediately.

"There's a girl in this house," I say, my voice flattening, "and somehow that's turned into an invitation for conversation."

No one moves.

"I hear names being used," I add, letting the edge creep in now. "First names. Casual fucking conversation like you're all on the same level."

Silence presses in thicker.

"That stops. Right now."

The words come out sharp enough to cut.

"If she speaks to you, you answer. Briefly. Respectfully. That's it." I straighten slightly, crossing my arms over my chest as my gaze sweeps the room again. "You do not start conversations. You do not linger. You do not get comfortable."

I pause, letting it sink in.

"And you address her properly," I continue. "Miss Malen. Every time. I don't care if she tells you otherwise."

My eyes flick back to Mason for half a second.

"And you," I add, voice dropping just a notch, "don't take that as encouragement to keep chatting."

He swallows. Nods once. "Yes, sir."

Good.

I take a slow breath, but the irritation hasn't left. If anything, it's sharpened into something else-something I don't particularly care to examine too closely.

"Your eyes stay off her," I say next, more deliberate now. "I don't want to see you watching her, tracking her, or paying attention to her unless she's directly speaking to you. You don't have the right."

That one lands harder.

A few of them shift again.

Good. They should.

"Do you understand me?" I ask, my voice suddenly louder, sharper.

"Yes, sir," they answer immediately, the response echoing through the room in unison.

I hold their gaze for another second, making sure it's not just words.

Then I push off the table.

"Then get the fuck out of here and get back to work."

Chairs scrape loudly as they stand all at once, the tension snapping into motion. They move quickly-too quickly-filing out of the room like they've just been handed a second chance they don't intend to waste.

It's almost ridiculous.

Armed men. Dangerous men.

And still, they look half a step away from panic when I walk into a room.

I exhale slowly through my nose as the last of them disappears, the door swinging shut behind them.

My arms remain crossed for a moment as I stare at the empty table.

I need to get a grip.

Because none of that-none of it-should have bothered me as much as it did.

But it's not about them.

It's about her.

And that's the problem.

I turn, stepping back into the hallway, the echo of my footsteps returning as I make my way toward the stairs. The cold air lingers for a second longer before it starts to fade the higher I go.

My mind doesn't stay quiet.

It drifts-to tonight.

To the people coming.

My family.

Matthew.

His fiancée.

Their friends.

Mine too, technically, though I'd never admit that out loud.

It all started with the business-my father's business. The one he built, the one he ran the way he saw fit until the night he pushed too far and didn't get back up from it.

The night it became mine.

Matthew handled people better. Always had. He made connections, turned business into something that looked almost normal, something that resembled friendships.

I handled everything else.

I push the door open at the top of the stairs, stepping back into the main level, the shift in air immediate.

Warmer.

Lighter.

Different.

And then my mind goes right back to her.

What the hell is she going to think of tonight?

Of them.

Will she like them?

Will they like her?

My jaw tightens slightly as I move forward.

It doesn't matter.

They'll like her.

They don't get a fucking choice.

I check my watch.

Eight minutes.

The metal presses cool against my wrist as I lower my hand again, my jaw tightening just slightly. It shouldn't matter. It's nothing-barely any time at all-but something about it settles wrong under my skin, like a quiet irritation I can't quite place.

Eight minutes since she walked away from me.

Since her voice softened at the edges and she said she'd be ready.

Too long.

The thought comes uninvited, and I shift my weight subtly at the base of the stairs, exhaling through my nose as I try to dismiss it. It's ten minutes. That's all she asked for. A normal amount of time. Reasonable.

And yet the house feels... different without her in it.

Not empty. Just off.

Quieter in a way I don't like.

My fingers brush briefly along my jaw as I force myself to stand still, to wait, but my mind doesn't follow where I want it to go. It drifts back to her anyway, like it's already decided where it belongs.

And then the word comes.

Angel.

It settles there without hesitation, without argument, and I almost scoff at it-almost push it away on instinct-but I don't.

Because it fits.

Too fucking well.

She's too soft for any of this. Too gentle in a world that would tear something like her apart without a second thought. She speaks like she's careful not to take up too much space, like she's still waiting to be told she's done something wrong, and somehow she still manages to be kind through it.

Kind to people who don't deserve it.

To me.

My jaw tightens slightly at the thought, but it doesn't stop the rest of it from coming.

She looks like one too.

Pale skin that catches the light in a way that makes it look untouched, scattered with freckles she doesn't try to hide. Soft eyes that hold too much emotion, too much trust, and fill with tears far more often than I fucking like.

That part-I don't like.

I don't like seeing her cry.

The thought lingers longer than it should, heavier than I want it to be, so I check my watch again, more out of habit than anything else.

Nine minutes.

And right as the number settles in my head, I hear it.

Footsteps.

Light. Quick. Uneven in a way that sounds almost like she's trying not to rush, even though she is.

My head turns before I can stop it, my attention locking onto the staircase just as she appears at the top.

She moves down quickly, a little too fast, like she's making up for lost time, her hand barely grazing the railing as she goes. There's something different in the way she moves-something lighter, almost... excited.

And the moment I see her, everything else falls quiet.

The yellow dress stands out immediately, soft but impossible to ignore against the muted tones of the house. It fits her in a way I don't particularly care for noticing-tight at the waist before falling down along her legs, the fabric moving with her as she steps.

I don't look for long.

But I notice.

I always fucking notice.

My gaze shifts upward instead, catching the fall of her hair over her shoulders, red and soft, half pulled back with something small-a bow, probably. She always has one. Something simple. Something that shouldn't matter.

And yet I register it without thinking.

Her shoes are white. Clean. Careful.

Everything about her is careful.

But it's her smile that holds me there.

Bright. Open. Unfiltered in a way that doesn't exist anywhere else in my world.

It hits harder than it should.

Settles deeper than I want it to.

There's something in my chest that tightens-not sharply, not painfully, but enough that I feel it-and I don't like the way it lingers. Don't like the way it feels like she's slowly carving space somewhere inside me without asking, without even knowing she's doing it.

And the worst part is-

I don't think I'd be able to stop it even if I tried.

For a brief moment, the thought pushes forward, uninvited and unwelcome-that one day there won't be anything left in me that isn't touched by her, that she'll take up all of it without even realizing.

I shut it down immediately.

Push it back before it can settle into something real.

Before it can become something I have to acknowledge.

"I'm ready," she says, her voice soft but bright, a little breathless as she reaches the last step.

She stops in front of me, just a bit too eager, her eyes lifting to meet mine with something open and unguarded that I don't see anywhere else.

Like this matters.

Like I matter.

My gaze lingers on her for a second longer than it should, taking her in without meaning to.

Then I straighten slightly, forcing everything back into place, locking it down where it belongs.

"Good," I say, my voice even, controlled, giving nothing away.

Like nothing shifted.

°°°°°

I fucking hate shopping.

There's no better way to put it.

I hate the noise, the constant hum of voices overlapping each other, people brushing past like they've got somewhere important to be when they don't. I hate the workers hovering too close, pretending not to watch while they absolutely are, and I hate the way the whole place feels-too bright, too crowded, too exposed.

Every part of it gets under my skin.

And yet-

I'm here.

Because she asked.

The memory plays back in my head as I walk beside her, bags cutting into my fingers, the weight of them nothing compared to the irritation sitting in my chest.

It started in the car.

Quiet at first, just the sound of the engine and the road beneath us, until she shifted slightly in her seat and looked over at me, something thoughtful in her expression.

"Adrian," she said softly, almost hesitant, "since it's his birthday... did you get him a gift?"

I stilled for half a second.

Of course I fucking didn't.

The thought came instantly, sharp and obvious, like the answer should've been just as easy out loud.

Instead, I kept my eyes on the road.

"No," I said simply.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her brows pull together, confusion softening her features.

"Oh," she murmured, like she didn't quite understand. "Why not?"

Why not.

My grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

What the fuck was I supposed to say?

Because I didn't think about it?

Because I didn't care enough to?

Because gifts weren't something I did?

None of those sounded right. Not said out loud. Not to her.

So I didn't say any of them.

I just shrugged.

My left hand stayed on the wheel, steady, controlled, while the other rested in my lap, fingers flexing slightly against the fabric of my pants.

Because what I really wanted-

was to reach over.

Just once.

Just enough to brush my fingers against hers, to feel something soft instead of leather and metal and control.

The thought irritated me enough that I pushed it down immediately.

Then she spoke again.

"Can we get one?"

I glanced at her then.

Her eyes were wide, hopeful in a way that made something in my chest tighten despite myself, her expression open like the answer actually mattered to her.

For fuck's sake.

She had to know what she was doing.

No one looked at someone like that without knowing the effect it had.

I exhaled slowly, dragging my gaze back to the road.

"Fine," I muttered.

And that was that.

That's how I ended up here.

Standing in the middle of a shopping centre I can't stand, surrounded by people I don't trust, carrying more bags than I should ever have in my hands.

And the worst part?

Not a single one of them is for my brother.

My grip tightens slightly around the handles as I glance down at them-soft fabrics, small boxes, things she stopped to look at, hesitate over, then glance at me like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to want them.

Things I told her to take.

"Just get it," I'd said more than once, already pulling out my card before she could overthink it.

Now I'm the one paying for it.

Not in money.

In patience.

In restraint.

In the fact that I'm still fucking here.

I glance over at her as she walks beside me, her attention drifting from store to store, that same quiet curiosity in her eyes like everything is still new.

And just like that, the irritation dulls-just slightly.

Not gone.

Never gone.

But quieter.

Because she looks like she's enjoying herself.

And for some reason-

that's enough to keep me here.

"I'm really excited about the coloring books," she says beside me, her voice soft but bright in a way that cuts clean through the noise of the place. "And the markers. I'm terrible at drawing, but... coloring used to be my favorite at home."

The word lands wrong.

I catch it instantly-the way her face shifts, just slightly, like something pulled too tight beneath her skin before she smooths it over. Most people wouldn't notice it.

I do.

My eyes flick to her without turning my head fully.

The fuck was that about?

I don't ask.

I just hum quietly, keeping my voice neutral. "Yeah?"

She nods, smiling again like it didn't happen, like she didn't just flinch at her own words. "Yeah," she says softly, almost to herself.

Then, like she always does, she shifts right past it.

Her hands come together in front of her, fingers lacing lightly as she looks up at me, her expression open, expectant.

"What do you think your brother would want?"

I huff out a quiet breath, dragging a hand through my hair.

"The fuck if I know."

The words come out flat, automatic.

And the second I see the way her expression drops-the small frown that pulls at her lips-I feel it.

Sharp.

Annoying as hell.

Like something in my chest just twisted.

Fuck.

I look away for a second, jaw tightening.

I'd say anything to fix that.

"Well... what does he like?" she asks instead, softer now, like she's trying to work around me instead of against me.

I exhale slowly.

What does he like?

My mind runs through it quickly, automatically.

Money.

Blood.

Liquor.

Violence.

Control.

Things I'm not about to say out loud.

Things she shouldn't even be near.

My gaze drops back to her, and I force something usable out of it.

"He collects watches," I say.

It's the easiest answer.

Safe enough.

Her face lights up immediately.

"Okay!" she says, bright again, like that small frown never existed. "We can work with that."

Her enthusiasm is immediate, effortless, and it does something I don't want to acknowledge.

"Is there one he's been wanting?" she asks, already thinking ahead, already planning.

I glance down at her-and that's when I catch it.

The necklace.

The one I gave her.

It catches the light just right as she moves, the small glint drawing my attention instantly, settling somewhere deep in my chest in a way I don't have words for.

Something warm.

Something... mine.

"Yeah," I say after a second, my voice lower now. "Black leather strap. He's been looking at it for a while."

I shake my head slightly. "Don't know why the fucker doesn't just buy it himself."

"That's not nice, Adrian," she says, gently bumping her elbow into my side.

The contact is light.

Barely anything.

And still-I feel it.

I glance down at her, something almost like amusement flickering briefly before it disappears.

She's already moved on.

"What about sports?" she continues, thinking out loud now. "Men like sports, right? Does he have a favorite team?"

I huff quietly. "Yeah. He watches enough of it."

"Okay, good," she says, nodding to herself like she's solving something important. "We can add something for that."

Then-before I can even respond-

"Oh! And we need a card," she adds, her eyes widening slightly. "We can't forget a card. That's important."

I don't say anything.

I just follow.

"And snacks," she continues, glancing up at me again. "He must have a favorite, right? Something he always gets?"

I drag a hand down my face slowly.

"Yeah," I mutter. "He does."

And somehow-

That's how I end up here.

A backseat full of shit I would've never bought.

Not in a million fucking years.

The watch, sure. That would've been enough. More than enough.

But now there's more.

Snacks.

Some sports-related crap.

And a fucking card.

The card is the worst part.

Bright. Stupid.

Some dumb joke printed across the front that I didn't even bother reading.

But she laughed.

A real laugh.

Soft and unguarded and completely fucking genuine as she held it up, turning it toward me like it mattered.

And that-

That was enough.

I bought it without even looking at it properly.

The car pulls into the grocery store parking lot before I even realize we've made it there. I shift it into park, the engine idling for a second before I shut it off.

I can't even remember the last time I stepped foot in a place like this.

Mary handles all of it.

Always has.

I step out of the car, the air cooler outside, and round the front without thinking. My hand reaches for the passenger door automatically, pulling it open.

She's already waiting.

She doesn't reach for the handle anymore. Doesn't argue about it.

She just looks up at me, soft and patient, like she expects it now.

Like she trusts that I'll do it.

And for some reason-

I always do.

The doors slide open and a wave of cool air hits us, cutting clean through the warmth outside. It's sharper in here, brighter, filled with that constant low hum of people and movement that I already fucking hate-but it's quieter than the mall, at least. Less chaotic. More controlled.

I grab a cart from the side without thinking, pulling it loose, and before I can even push it forward, her hand slips around the edge of it like it belongs there.

I glance down briefly.

She's already looking around.

Not just looking-taking it in.

Her eyes move from aisle to aisle, shelf to shelf, like she's trying to catch everything at once, like she doesn't want to miss anything. There's something almost... careful about it. Curious, but restrained.

Like this isn't normal for her.

The thought lingers longer than it should.

"I was thinking of making pasta," she says softly, pulling my attention back to her, her voice steady but thoughtful as she starts listing things off. "With chicken, and a salad... maybe roasted carrots. And a dessert, I just-I'm not sure what yet."

She looks up at me then.

Those eyes.

Open. Waiting.

Fuck.

The reaction hits low and immediate, sharp enough that I shift slightly, forcing it down before it goes anywhere it shouldn't. I drag my attention back to something neutral-anything neutral.

"Yeah," I say, voice even. "That's fine."

That's all it takes.

Her face lights up like I've given her something more than just a fucking answer, and she nods quickly, already turning the cart.

"Okay, the vegetables should be this way," she says, tugging it forward.

And I let her.

I fall into step beside her without saying anything, my hand brushing the cart now and then, but I don't take it from her. She knows where she's going-or at least she's pretending she does-and I don't stop her.

I just watch.

The way she picks things up, the way she handles them.

Carrots first-she slides them into one of those thin plastic bags, tying it off carefully like it actually matters, like it's something she doesn't want to ruin.

Then lettuce. Then she's already moving again, pulling the cart with her as she grabs potatoes, placing everything inside like it's something fragile.

It's not.

But to her, it might as well be.

I don't comment.

I just keep walking beside her, letting her fill the cart, letting her decide what goes in it.

We move like that for a while, back and forth through the aisles, her quietly checking things in her head, making sure she hasn't forgotten anything. Every now and then she glances at me, like she's looking for confirmation she's doing it right.

She is.

More than right.

"So," she says after a bit, her tone lighter now, almost casual as she reaches for something off the shelf, "when's your birthday?"

I glance at her.

She doesn't look at me right away, just adds, "Mine's September eighth."

I store it immediately.

Without thinking.

Three months.

"July twelfth," I answer.

She freezes.

Actually freezes.

Then she turns toward me so fast it almost catches me off guard, her eyes wide, something small still clutched in her hand.

"Are you serious?" she blurts. "That's-that's in a month."

Her reaction is immediate, completely genuine, and it hits harder than it should.

"Why haven't you said anything?"

My jaw tightens slightly.

Because I don't care.

Because it doesn't fucking matter.

Because I'd rather not deal with it at all than head someone say happy fucking birthday.

"Wasn't important," I say.

It comes out flat, like that should be the end of it.

It isn't.

"Adrian," she says, softer now, but there's something in it-something insistent, like she's not just going to let it go. "It is important."

I look at her.

She means it.

"We're celebrating," she adds, like she's already decided, like I don't get a say in it.

I open my mouth to shut it down-

And she's already moving.

Dragging the cart forward like she knows exactly what I'm about to say and chooses not to hear it.

I exhale slowly, watching her for a second.

Then I follow.

Because of course I fucking do.

By the time we reach the checkout, I'm done with this place.

Completely fucking done.

Not with her.

Never with her.

With everything else.

The noise, the people, the way it feels like everyone's too close, too aware, like I've got eyes on me from every direction.

If she wanted to stay longer, I would.

I'd stand here all goddamn day if that's what she needed.

But I don't want to.

Not here.

I move ahead of her slightly, my hand finding her hips without thinking as I guide her to the side so I can start unloading the cart.

She doesn't fight it.

Doesn't even hesitate.

Just lets me move her, like she trusts me to put her where she's supposed to be.

That thought settles somewhere it shouldn't.

I focus on the groceries instead, placing them on the conveyor belt one by one, keeping my attention there-on something simple, something controlled.

Until I look up.

And meet a pair of eyes that immediately piss me the fuck off.

The cashier.

Too comfortable.

Too aware.

Her gaze drags over me like she thinks I'm something she can look at, like she's already decided she knows exactly what kind of man I am.

"Need any bags, handsome?" she says, her voice dipping just enough to make it obvious what she's doing.

I feel my stomach turn.

"Yeah," I say flatly, not even looking at her properly. "We need fucking bags."

My tone should be enough.

It isn't.

I shift slightly, moving Lily forward a bit, bringing the cart closer, my attention flicking to her for half a second.

She's watching.

"Bags would be nice," Lily says softly, polite as ever.

Too polite.

There's something underneath it, though. Subtle. Tight.

I catch it.

The cashier-Daniele, her name tag reads-barely glances at her before she starts scanning, like Lily isn't even worth the attention.

That alone makes my jaw tighten.

I don't say anything.

I just start bagging the groceries myself, placing them into the cart as they come through, my movements controlled, deliberate, ignoring the way the woman keeps trying to pull my attention back to her.

She gives the total.

I don't even look at her when I tap my card.

"Want your receipt, handsome?" she asks, holding it out like she expects something.

Before I can answer, Lily takes it.

"Thank you," she says sweetly.

But it's different this time.

Sharper.

Quieter in a way that carries more weight.

I catch it immediately.

And I can't stop the small smirk that pulls at my mouth.

Lily doesn't look at me.

She just slides her arm through mine, firm enough that I feel it, and starts guiding me forward, pushing the cart with her other hand like she's already decided we're done here.

And just like that-

We are.

Because she's jealous.

°°°°°