Told her that everyone around me dies.
What in the fucking hell.
I don’t even care that I’m gonna break up the family meeting, barge into her house unannounced and scare them all off.
I’m scared myself. Fucking terrified. I need to check on her, see for myself that she’s okay, and nothing, fucking nothing can keep me away from her tonight.
Yeah, so the kids were about to turn in, and I’m disrupting their day schedule. If this deviation from their daily fucking ritual scars them for life, I’ll live with it. And the award of the Best Dad of the Year goes to…
I drive slowly, forcing myself not to step on the gas. Endangering my kids isn’t worth it. Let the only scars they bear be psychological.
Christ, a therapist would have a field day with me.
Thank fuck I avoid their kind like the plague. If one got hold of me now, I’d be locked up, maybe even in a straitjacket—because I’m vibrating with rage. When I get my hands on the guy who touched Octavia and frightened her like that, the guy circling around my family like a goddamn shark, all bets are off. I’m gonna wring that motherfucker’s neck.
Yeah, see? A good thing I avoid therapists. And fuck, I can’t stop my mind from spinning around in useless circles, jumping back and forth.
Always coming back to Octavia, and my kids, and the riddle of the messages.
The town is tiny. I’m outside Octavia’s house in two minutes. Grabbing my grumpy kids from the backseat, I storm up to the house and lay in on the doorbell.
The person who opens the door is not Octavia. That’s the first thing that registers, and I stare at the blond, slight girl who stares back at me, eyes wide.
Forcing my last remaining neurons to work, I bring forth her name. “Augusta?”
Her mouth quirks, and suddenly she looks quite a lot like Octavia. “Just Gigi. And you’re Matt Hansen. Come on in.”
I don’t ask her how she knows who I am. I mean, a bearded guy with two little kids appearing on the doorstep—who else could I be?
“You shouldn’t open the door to strangers,” I mutter as I follow her inside.
“Sir, yessir,” she says with a grin. “You’re really hardcore, aren’t you?”
Hardcore? I frown as I step inside their living room, Mary squealing when she spots Octavia and trying to free her hand from mine.
I release her and she shoots up to Tay like a dog after a rabbit. Octavia grabs her and lifts her on her lap, and now Cole is trying to dive off me head-first, so I lower him before he manages to slip out of my grip.
When I look up again, I find several pairs of eyes watching me.
But I only care about Octavia’s bright blue gaze. Cole is trying to climb onto her lap, and she helps him up, giving me a faint smile. She looks pale, I note, and there’s a scratch on her cheek. And her throat. A red line there.
Christ.
I keep cataloguing the hurts I can see, feeding my anger, keeping still in the middle of the room with her family all around when all I wanna do is stride up to her, pick her up in my arms and keep her safe.
What will her family think? Her mother, sitting primly in a loveseat, her face an older version of Octavia, her graying hair pulled back. Her blonde sister who’s still grinning like the cat who caught the canary and is planning how to eat it. And her brother, Merc for Mercury, with his blond hair and light blue eyes who’s looking at me calmly, as if he expected me to show up.
If so, he’s the only one. The rest of the family are staring at me like I’m ET with a beard.
Octavia is okay, I tell myself again. She’s fine, right here, my kids in her arms, but I can’t get my heart to stop racing, my rage and fear looking for an outlet they can’t find.
And she comes to me. She gets up, takes my kids’ hands and comes toward me. “Are you all right?” she asks.
My eyesight blurs. She was hurt because of me, and she is concerned about me. I don’t fucking know what to do with this.
That funny breathing thing my lungs do? It’s the opposite. It’s as if my chest is expanding, and I’m inhaling all the oxygen of the world.
I love her.