14. Sweetheart
FOURTEEN
SWEETHEART
CONNOR
Ithought I fucked up.
Wait. No. I did fuck up. I’m man enough to admit that.
Like always, my instinctive reaction is to go right for my knife, and that’s exactly what I did.
In retrospect, that was a bad idea when Haven’s only been in my care for little over a week.
I’m still trying my best to show her that she has nothing to fear from me, and what do I do?
I grab her arm with the intent to start slicing away.
No alcohol pad to sterilize the knife first, no pain meds, no knowledge on how to perform surgery other than the fact I’m pretty fucking handy with a blade.
To think I was surprised she reacted like I was some psycho… shit. I am a psycho. I just never wanted Haven to realize that until I had her locked-down so tight, there is no escaping me.
And I don’t just mean in my basement where I can watch her constantly, knowing where she is at any given moment.
I got a little too excited—okay. A lot excited. I was doing my best to give Haven time, to give her space, but something about the way she was absently stroking the back of her arm as though assuring herself she still had the implant…
I like to think I have control. Over the years, I’ve learned that, when it comes to Haven, I have none.
Maybe it’s because I had to wait so long before I could let her know that I’ve always considered her mine. Haven seems to be convinced this is all so sudden.
Sudden? Fuck that. The only thing sudden is how I’ve gone from zero to one hundred when it comes to how intense I want to Claim her before someone else uses the worthless Order charter to try and stop me.
I don’t care what happens to me. I only care about Haven, and we—Dallas, Adrian, and me—decided that keeping the truth that I have her on the down low is the best for all involved.
Before long, she’ll understand that we’ve always been meant to be, and we can finally have the happily-ever-after the Order’s been denying us for so fucking long.
It’s been nine years since I wanted to stand up and call her mine in front of the Order. But that’s not when I first realized there was something about her that I just had to have.
Shit. I was… ten? Yeah. Ten. I was ten the first time I got a little woody and figured out it happened because Haven Smith had sat down next to me during lunch.
I was used to my prick getting hard, then soft, playing with it because it felt good, but when she tapped my arm and asked if she could have a slice of my apple, I was fucking sprung.
She smelled so pretty. Always like flowers.
Her hair was soft, and her eyes were kind unless she was looking at Adrian.
Her and Loni were tight then. Adrian was already bullying Loni—mainly because, unlike me, he picked his girl back in kindergarten instead of fifth grade—and Haven was strong enough to stand up against the King’s spoiled nephew while Loni hid behind her.
Haven hated Adrian when we were in grade school.
By the time we reached middle school, her antipathy extended to me by association, and I let her hate me…
even went out of my way to annoy her so that I could encourage it…
all because I would take anything Haven Smith would give me so long as she was paying attention to me rather than ignoring my existence.
I knew I would be an Owed back then. Had no idea really what the concept of an Offering was. Oh, no. That came later, when I was twelve and Jack had already announced that Adrian was going to be the boy who got to call Haven his when we were all grown up.
I punched Adrian in the nose when I understood what that meant. I remember how he licked the blood dripping from it with a tiny smirk before grabbing me by the shoulders. I thought he was going to pin my arms so that Dallas could whoop my ass while Adrian told him where to hit.
Nope. He turned me around until I was looking at Loni and Haven.
We were in gym class, and the two were sitting on the bleachers ‘resting’ while the boys and I were supposed to running around the track.
Our gym teacher had disappeared before I swung my fist, pointedly ignoring the blood trickling past Adrian’s lip when he finally returned.
It was Order biz, even for twelve-year-old boys, and he refused to interfere.
He didn’t need to. Not when Adrian told me to look at the girl with strawberry blonde hair.
“That’s the Offering who will be mine, Con,” he told me. “Haven’s yours. Don’t listen to Jack. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. When we’re grown, I’m going to have Loni all to myself.”
And that was that. Adrian and I came to an agreement that day, and fifteen years later, the only thing that’s changed is that Loni is living two states away, completely unaware that Adrian still has every intention of one day making her his wife.
Just like there’s no stopping me when it comes to seeing Haven Smith become Haven Heyward.
And yet…
The implant conversation could've gone better. The knife probably didn't help. Neither did the part where I casually informed her that, one day, she'd be my wife and have my children…
In hindsight, that might've been information that was better revealed gradually instead of me dropping it on her after I attempted to perform a little at-home surgery.
On the plus side, I apologized and she seemed to accept it. Okay. She flipped me off and tried to stab me with a pen, but since she could’ve curled up in a ball in the corner or locked herself in the panic room again, I consider that progress.
The old Haven would've sniffed and flipped her hair and called me an asshole while I smiled and told her that wasn’t very Offering-like.
The current Haven settles for the finger, and you know what?
I'll take it.
Two weeks after bringing her home, things are slowly getting a little better.
Not perfect. Not even fucking close. My optimism took a hit these last few days. I really thought that, by now, Haven would at least have a couple of spoken words for me, even if it’s fuck you. No.
I thought I wouldn’t have to sedate her more often than not so that she can sleep peacefully through the night. Considering she has nightmares nearly every time she closes her eyes, I have to do something to help her.
She knows about the cameras now. She keeps trying to figure out how many I have and where they are, but I bought the best money can buy.
She’ll never find them, and since I only use them to make sure she’s safe when I attempt to give her some semblance of privacy, she eventually accepts that they’re there.
Does that mean she spends a lot of time locked in the bathroom? Yes. Fair enough. I promised that there weren’t any cameras in there, and I meant it. It was an oversight on my part that she wouldn’t instantly turn that into a second sanctuary, but at least she returns to the panic room to sleep.
Or not sleep, as it were.
I have a key. She has no idea that I do, and I plan on keeping it that way. Whenever I pull up the cameras, either on my phone or on my computer, I’m doing it to make sure she’s okay. And when she’s not? I use it as an excuse to join her in the basement.
Most nights I stretch out on the leather couch, being close without crowding her.
If the nightmares get too bad, I’ll sneak in and help her sleep, then curl up behind her so that I can stroke her soft hair and breathe in her floral scent and whisper soft promises that I’ll always love her no matter what.
I don’t sleep beside her. The last thing I need is to pass out and find that Haven woke up first, panicked that I might’ve taken advantage of her.
It killed me, the way she compared me to those fuckers who took her—especially since she wasn’t wrong.
I want her to see me as her hero, not her villain, and I’ll do everything I can to make her as comfortable as possible until she finally believes that.
She’s eating now. There are times she makes me try it first because she doesn’t trust me, but I’ll be the taste-tester for the rest of our lives if it means she’s getting regular meals into her.
She's spending less time locked inside the panic room and more time in the finished basement itself when she isn’t hiding in the bathroom. Yes, she’s still avoiding me when she can. Still watching every move I make like she's waiting for me to grow a second head or jump her or something.
I can’t stay away. Maybe that’s a mistake. Maybe she needs more time to herself to get used to her new reality, but the way I see it, this is exposure therapy. She needs me to be close by so she gets used to me.
At least, that’s how I justify it.
“Sweetheart?”
With a scowl, she looks up at me.
I keep trying out different nicknames for her.
‘Baby’ is a constant in the rotation, mainly because I once overheard her call that fucker Jason Michaels by the pet name.
Sure, I threatened to cut his balls off if he didn’t end things with Haven then and there that summer, but despite how quickly I put a stop to her secret fling the moment I found out about it, I’ve been determined to hear her call me her baby.
By using it for her, I’m hoping she’ll eventually pick up on it and use it for me in return.
Other than that, the only one that doesn’t get an eye roll or a wrinkled nose or a flinch is ‘sweetheart’. I’m leaning toward that being the keeper, though I’ve got a few more in my back pocket that I plan on trying on for size.
For now, I step out of the kitchenette, holding a snack plate for Haven.
One eyebrow rises. She huffs out a breath, then takes the plate from me as though she doesn’t have any other option.
She doesn’t. I’m going to feed her, and she’s going to eat, and it’s just a lot easier to go along with it.
Today her snack is watermelon. Yesterday it was kiwi. The day before that? Peaches.
To be honest? I'm beginning to suspect she thinks I have a fruit obsession with how often that’s the fresh snack I prepare for her.
The truth is a whole simpler than that: I like using a knife to chop the fruit up.
Sometimes I can use my pocketknife; for the bigger fruits, like grapefruit and watermelon, I rely on a kitchen knife.
Either way, I feel the most like me when I have a knife in my hand, and since I don’t want to frighten Haven any more than I already have, slicing up fruit is the best outlet for me.
Plus, it’s healthy and it has vitamins and shit. It’s good for Haven, easy to digest, and she enjoys it. All wins in my book.
I should’ve known better. I have to cajole Haven, almost plead with her to eat the snacks in addition to her breakfast, lunch, and dinner. That she ate two of the three slices of watermelon without a fight… I should’ve known she was up to something.
After wiping her hands on her pants, she reaches for one of the plentiful notepads left in the basement. She flips to a new page, her tongue peeking through the part of her lips as she writes one word on the sheet:
outside
That started two days ago. Telling me in writing that she was finding it hard to breathe in the basement, that she wanted fresh air, she asked if I would let her go outside.
The last time she stepped foot outside of my house, it was when she was trying to flee during Adrian’s visit.
The small window in the basement wasn’t doing the job for her.
She wanted to see the sun, and I… I couldn’t refuse.
I’m also not completely blinded by my love for Haven. She’s smart and she’s determined and there’s no way she’s given in to me yet. So while I’m willing to let her have what she wants, I’m careful, too.
An hour later, she's leaning against the balcony rail outside my bedroom. I’m right there, ready to stop her if she decides she wants to jump again.
Despite the early summer weather, she’s wrapped up in her maroon hoodie, face tilted toward the sun.
Her loose hair moves gently in the afternoon breeze.
I stand behind her, caging her in with my arms as I stare out into the backyard.
The Heyward house was built on this plot of land purposely.
My parents desired privacy, and that’s exactly what they got.
Acres of dark woods stretch beyond my property for miles.
I have no neighbors nearby. No local traffic, except for the delivery drivers who are instructed to leave packages in a large storage bin at the end of the gravel drive.
Most importantly, there are no witnesses who can sense that there’s something disturbing about the smirking Owed who won’t let the haunted Offering out of his reach.
How can I when it’s obvious that what she’s doing is figuring out a way to escape me? Okay. Maybe not right this very second since her eyes are closed, but I’d be a fucking moron if I thought she’d given up so easily.
Especially since, if our positions were reversed, I'd be doing the same exact thing—unless my captor was Haven Smith, then I’d be perfectly happy to stay right where I am.
She can try. In fact, I’m thrilled that she is. So long as I see that feisty side of Haven, I know that the woman I’ve always loved is still in there somewhere.
I mean, I’m not going to let her get away. But hell if it isn’t a relief to know that she’s going to try. Eventually she’ll want to stay. She has to. Until then, though… whatever makes you happy, sweetheart.
Whatever makes you happy.