THE MINUTES FADE INTO HOURS, each and all passing by like seconds. The agony. The miscarriage. His arms. Sirens. An ambulance and this hospital bed, wheeled from one room to another under the strip lighting, a stream of glowing yellow to my unfocused gaze.
Shadows of people lean over me.
Muted conversations.
They give me a sedative; I know that much is true, and I give in to its loving pull, embracing the darkness that swims directly into my bloodstream.
Then there is just him.
With my eyes still shut, my mind balancing on the cusp of consciousness, I feel his fingertips slide across my forehead. The soft scent of his cologne, the earthy musk of his skin, and the subtle aromatics of cigar smoke fill the room with his presence.
His touch trails down my cheek, igniting my skin. After he traces the shell of my ear, he tucks a piece of hair neatly behind it. The sedative is strong as it drags my mind back.
And.
Forth.
From blackness.
To his gentle strokes.
And back again.
His fingers find me in the abyss once more. They caress down the side of my face, replaced quickly by his knuckles continuing to stroke. His thumb flicks out to run the course of my lower lip, and his touch is so… chaste. I love him. It’s not a small, blooming love. It’s explosive. Tremendous. And devastating.
His touch burns with this unrequited love.
With my eyes still closed, I mumble, “You have a family, Sir.” My mouth strains around each word while my mind refuses to settle on a state of consciousness. “You say you weren’t home, that you didn’t grow up with them, and that is your excuse for…”
I don’t know if I’m even talking aloud or if I’m dreaming this verbal heave of insight.
I chuckle. “Straight lines and pressed shirts and three meals a day. No cake without dinner. Don’t say sorry unless you mean it. Conventions. And, yes, Sir. No, Sir… but what I think, Sir, is that you don’t want a home because you don’t know who you are outside of business. You don’t want to have a family around because you don’t know how to behave unless it’s Big Mafia Boss Butcher. Sir, you’re institutionalised. You don’t know how to be… just Clay… just, iddy-biddy Clay Butcher.” I hum my amusement again, still talking in a kind of sleep and drug-induced stupor. “Xander wants to impress you, ya know? He is dying to be noticed by you. Do you see him? I see him trying so hard… I think those bruises, the fights, they are for you. To get you to notice… I see myself in him. I know what it’s like to beg for attention. I have spent my whole life trying to get noticed and no one did until I got pregnant with an important man’s grandson and now… You don’t appreciate what that means, Sir… to a girl like me. I was hoping my dad would notice me… I was hoping he would take me, too, ya know? Take us.”
Only some words reach my tongue, the others lost to the grasp of the sedative. “But now, now I’m your burden, Sir. And you will push me aside, too. For business.”
My head rolls to the silence.
To his reverent touch that hasn’t left my cheek, warming the cool skin with his worshipful caress.
That is all that passes me by.
Then, after seconds or minutes or hours have passed, his words meet me somewhere in my deep world-avoiding slumber. “You want me to be just Clay?’ he says softly, as though he isn’t sure if I’m conscious, and perhaps he’d prefer me not to be. “Okay, sweet girl. You asked me once why I couldn’t sleep.” In my mind, I frown at the sound of his strange tone. Detached. Chilling. “I told you I was afraid of failure, sweet girl, and you looked at me like I was out of my goddamn mind. A man like me clearly doesn’t fail.” Within my unconscious state, I hear his desolate chuckle. I don’t like it. “Truth is, I fail a lot, little deer. I fail everyone besides myself. I’m a selfish fucker like that. The woman I have spent most of my life with is a prisoner of the Cosa Nostra. My prisoner. She either leaves and loses everything she has a right to, or she stays for the scraps of her legacy. It isn’t my choice.
“My brothers… I was never there for them. I don’t know how to make that up to them. I don’t think there is a way. Xander has pain that I know nothing about, and I’m too stubborn to ask or allow him to dwell on such a thing. The Butcher in me wants to knock it from his skull and tell him to toughen up. I know that’s wrong, but I can’t change the way I am.
‘Max. He closed off a long time ago. I barely even know the man he has become.
‘Bronson. I left him with the weight of being what I should have been. I left him to look after them even though I promised him once, many years ago, that I would get him out. But I never did. He lost part of his sanity to this business because I couldn’t keep my promise. And he nearly died tied to a chair while I drank whiskey and laughed at my own brilliance. I thought I had it all figured out. I didn’t. I failed them all.
“And you, sweet girl. I have failed you now, too. If I wasn’t such a selfish bastard, I would have organised another ultrasound so you could see the heartbeat that I saw. I should have twisted the screen that first time. I should have… Perhaps we would have caught something. And if I didn’t owe my brothers so much for my absence, perhaps I would have taken you and the baby and left the city, little deer. Given you everything that a beautiful, resilient girl like you deserves from a man like me who has it to give. Perhaps I would have left this life for you. Been comfortable, being comfortable. With you. And him. Perhaps… but we’ll never know.”
I COME to on a hard mattress with a needle channelled beneath the skin on the back of my hand and the sound of beeping and shuffling feet. There is a bit of pain. No more than my monthly period. No lingering reminder of the baby.
Just nothing.
No Benji.
No baby.
Both are just gone.
Awareness spills into my heart; I was going to keep him. Maybe I could have gotten a job just like Jasmine did, find a little house on a cul-de-sac where he could ride a green bike with the tassels on the handlebars. I could have learned to bake. It doesn’t matter what. Cakes. Scones. I’d have taught him, too, when he was big enough to crack the eggs for me. I could have done it. I don’t feel useless anymore. I don’t feel unworthy. I think I felt optimistic… resilient.
Just like Clay said.
Now though… No baby. No recording. No Benji. The whole event bled from me in that shower. The only sign anything happened is the thick pad I can feel between my legs and the cramps reminding me I’m soon to be even more hollowed out.
It is as if Benji and I never had a relationship, never made love, never cuddled after, no memory or consequence to hold on to. Now that I know it was him, that we made love the day he died, I try to imagine his smile when I told him I was pregnant. That we are connected in a very special way. And then I imagine him feeling this loss, too. So, it isn’t another death, like my mother’s, that I am left to feel the loss of alone.
Maybe wherever he is, he’s sad, too.
With a reluctant sigh, I blink in rapid succession until my eyes adjust to the room. The sun cuts through the space, slithers of rays lighting up the dust as they float in the air.
Through the window, I can hear the soft coo of birds and the low drone of the normal humdrum world. Circling the back of my skull, a recent conversation, either a dream or—
“Little deer.” Clay’s deep timbre carries across from my right, and I roll to chase the sound. He straightens from his chair, his white shirt rolled up to his elbows beneath a black vest. After he moves to my side, the look in his eyes as he studies my face can only be described as shattered blue glass, shining as if wet. “Do you need some water?”
“I don’t need my dad anymore,” I mutter, although I know that entire idea was redundant and stupid for a while. When I stepped through that gate two weeks ago, I had no idea what would become of me. I never knew who he would become to me. I might have avoided falling, drowning in him, tumbling helplessly in love with the most unattainable man in the world.
What right does a girl like me have to be anywhere near a man like Clay Butcher, anyway? I know what it was… a sense of responsibility and pity on his part that tethered us together. That and my pretty body. And since love can’t be found in pretty things alone but in lasting connections—ours washed out in the shower—it is only a matter of time before he casts me aside like everyone else does. I won’t be cast aside—I’ll step aside.
I roll away from him and face the window, cuddling my waist. “I don’t need you either, Sir.” It’s a strangled lie. But I refuse to be his pretty little burden.
“Clay,” he grounds from behind me. I blink at the beam that slices through space like an ethereal light, taking with it another piece of my existence, another piece I didn’t know I wanted until I had it. And him, too.
Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply and feel my mind swimming in the past months of fatigue. I pretend to sleep, and my heart slows to a steady, boring beat. I hate it.
I hear him move and sit down on the chair on the other side of the bed. I wonder if he has slept at all… although I know the answer is no. After all, he operates best under a level of duress.
Over the next few hours, he doesn’t force me to speak or move or acknowledge him, letting my meek tantrum go unpunished, leading me to believe he has already started to care less…
Doesn’t feel the urge to call me out on my behaviour. On my lie that I don’t need him.
A whooshing sound proceeds gentle footsteps and a hushed voice. “Here.” Aurora’s gentle cadence dances around the room, pulling me from my half-slumber. “I got you a coffee. Has she woken up at all?”
“On and off,” he states, disembodied.
I hear her sigh. “You can bring her home, you know? The doctor said she doesn’t need to be here.”
“We will leave soon.”
“She’ll be more comfortable in your bed.”
“I doubt that.”
“Clay,” she drawls, his name soaring with sad understanding through the air. ‘It wasn’t anything you did—’
“That’s enough.”
My throat tightens. Does he blame himself for my miscarriage? It didn’t even cross my mind that he may harbour guilt, and for what?
“Jasmine has packed a suitcase for her,” he says, and I suck a sharp breath in, feeling sadness like a swamp rising around my feet. I was going to leave anyway, so it’s good he has made this easier. It’s really fucking convenient, actually. Now I don’t even need to pretend I am here for any reason other than the pregnancy… I don’t need to pretend… Defiant tears rise behind my eyes, and fill my throat, tightening it. I want to scream into the pillow, but he continues, “I’ve told Vinny that you will lead discussions with—’
“What have you done?” she cuts in, and I can almost hear the steam bursting from his ears at the audacity of being interrupted. I don’t care, though. I wish I could fall asleep; wish I didn’t have to listen to him discard me like—
Strained exasperation leaves him on an exhale. “I am delegating, Aurora. Isn’t that what you advised me to do?”
“They won’t respect—’
“They damn well will respect you, Aurora!” he snaps, and I don’t think I’ve heard his voice break in that manner before. Not steady and measured at all. Twisted like a live wire, sparking at the edges of his resolve. I want to shuffle from the mere sound of it, feeling acutely awake now, but I’m nervous my movements will bring a fresh wave of pain.
His voice deepens and lowers as he says, “You are my wife and goddamn Cosa Nostra royalty. That stands for something. You need to stop this nonsense. Jimmy is dead. You are his legacy. Demand respect from them.”
“Where will you take her?” Aurora asks with a sigh.
“I’ll be taking her away for a few days,” he states, and I sit up immediately, twisting with wide eyes to face him, finding his sharp, knowing gaze already trained to mine. “You breathe deeper when you are asleep, little deer.”
“Where are you taking me?”
Aurora risks a quick glance at Clay before looking at me again. “I’ll take my leave,” she says, smiling softly. “I’m sorry for your loss, Fawn. These things are never fair.”
“I didn’t want him anyway,” I mutter, but the strangled sob that breaches my throat betrays that obvious deflection.
“Tough little thing, aren’t you?” She walks through the door, saying, “You would have been a force to be reckoned with if you grew up in our world. Where you belonged.”
Where I belonged? “Belong…” I whisper, playing with the syllables, the phonetics.
I set my eyes on Clay once more. My heart skips a beat, no, an entire track, at the sight of him. He’s leaning forward on his knees, hands clasped together, cradling his chin, blue flakes in every hue glowing within his eyes. I’m not sure if my heart will find its way back on the same tracks when he is gone. Forever hurtling through the wasteland inside me where he used to reside. A glimpse of affection—at everything. “It’s only a matter of time before you tell me to leave. Why can’t we just get it over with?”
He rises to his feet in one smooth movement, and I hold my breath as he approaches me with those powerful, measured steps. “I won’t be asking you to leave.”
“So…” A sad derisive laugh breaks from my lips. “You’re married to the business, Sir. Not to mention literally married. What am I?”
His knuckles stroke lines down my cheek, and I close my eyes to fall further into the intensity of that sensation. “You belong to me, sweet girl.”
Belong.
I remember when I thought that belonging to him would be the sweetest of existences, and I was right. A girl like me should be content just having tasted such sweetness, but it makes little sense. And I’m a survivor first but tumbling helplessly behind that is the dastardly trait I inherited from my mother—hopeless romantic.
“Why?” I hear myself ask. I flick my eyes open, crashing with the intensity in his. “Why? I have nothing to offer you, and you have everything. I get you felt responsible for me before, but without the baby, I just don’t buy it. What do you want from me? Because I’ll be honest, Sir, I won’t survive much more of this. You’re saying things you don’t mean and making me stupidly hopeful for a future with you in it. You are making me weak. Reliant.” My throat clogs up with tears, my voice stuttering, emotion rising to a panicked crescendo as the truth falls from between my lips. “I won’t survive the day you drop me, Sir, because my entire world is starting to centre around you, and I’m fucking scared that I’ll have nothing left inside me once you pull yourself out! So, tell me. Tell me why! Why me!”
Possessiveness ghosts across his eyes as he lifts his hand to clasp my jaw, before leaning down and pressing his lips to mine, soft, warm, safe; a lingering kiss that seems to branch out to every cell within me. His deep, rumbling hum pulses through me. His mouth feels like a gift.
Even after he breaks away, straightening, I’m left with waves of dizzying euphoria. “Do you remember what you said to me when you were sedated, sweet girl? The way you mocked me.” I swallow down the lump that forms as his eyes shift dangerously over my face. “I told you that if you didn’t like something, to use your voice. You did. And you were right. I don’t know who I am outside of this business. I’ve spent my whole life on one path, with one destination. I have known exactly what to do and where to be. I knew every turn.” His brilliant blue gaze softens, and I see him… I see Clay. “Fawn. Why you? Because when I’m with you, my sweet girl, I’m lost. And I quite enjoy that.”
Sentiment holds us entranced until a man wearing a white coat and one of those bouncing rubber pocket watches strides through the door. I break eye contact to peer over Clay’s shoulder as the man suddenly stops, seeing Clay towering over me. “Sorry. Should I come back, Mr Butcher?”
Barely heeding him, Clay keeps his eyes locked on my face, saying, “No. Now is fine, Price.”
The nervous-looking doctor approaches my bed, stopping at the foot and resting his hands on the railing. I cuddle my waist protectively, not having pleasant experiences with men in uniforms. Clay’s brows furrow as he assesses my defensive response. “How do you feel, young lady?”
“Miss Harlow,” Clay states, a subtle bite to his words.
The doctor laughs once through his nerves. “Sorry, of course. Miss Harlow, how do you feel today?”
“Fine,” I say with a sad shrug, but it is just a little drop in the ocean of all the emotions I am awash with now. “Normal.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss. We looked at the boy. He was small. It was nothing you did, and nothing could have been done. Our bodies know when things aren’t right,” he says, and I try to fight the roll of my eyes. It is such a line. So, my baby wasn’t right? Cool, thanks for letting me know. I feel so much better now. “You’ll be bleeding for a while. Ultimately, you’re just having a heavy period. Do you have supplies?”
Clay answers, “Yes,” and I try not to glow crimson. God, please tell me he didn’t buy me tampons. Aurora bought them, surely. I can cope with that. Flashing behind my eyes is the image of Clay Butcher purchasing tampons like he does stocks or illegal weapons, with effortless authority. Well researched. Tested. Measured. I inwardly cringe, turning towards the window as my embarrassment creeps up my neck and envelops my entire face.
“I’ll leave you to it then,” the doctor says, offering Clay his hand to shake, but when Clay ignores his gesture, turning his attention to me, the doctor pretends he didn’t and walks from the room.
Worrying my bottom lip, I peer back up at him, meeting the blue gaze of the most powerful man in the city, maybe the country. “You brought me tampons, Sir?”
‘Pads, actually.’ My hands meet my face as my cheeks engulf in fire, but he doesn’t allow me to dwell, saying, “You will let me take care of you how I see fit. That isn’t a request.”
