Three Kinds of Trouble (Sons of Templar MC 9)

Now it was my turn to squeeze her hand. “No,” I ground out firmly. “Don’t you dare. You are the reason that I got through those years.”

“You wouldn’t have had to get through anything if I’d taken you away from there,” she argued.

There it was, the blame she’d carried around for decades. Dragged around with her. That she’d kept hidden deep inside, letting it eat away at her.

The worst kind of blame, that kind felt by everyone who had experienced or witnessed something horrific, wondering what if it had been different? What if I had made it different?

“My mother would never have let you, you know that,” I told her what she already knew. “Not because she wanted me, but because you did. She would’ve sunk her claws in deeper, leaving more scars just to spite you. You did the only thing you could do, the best thing that you could do, giving me light and strength and positive memories.” I squeezed her hand harder. “You gave me you.”

We didn’t speak about anything else, and she didn’t try to argue further. We just watched the stars and let the tequila stave off the worst of our pain.

I didn’t usually answer calls from unknown numbers, but I was distracted. By happiness. By Aunt V chatting as she cooked dinner for Hades and me. We were sitting at the breakfast bar drinking wine, watching her because she’d demanded that we not do a damn thing to help her.

Hades had been a presence throughout Aunt V’s visit. Not a constant one, letting us have our time for the most part. He disappeared to the club most days, not coming home until late, crawling into bed with me then making me come quiet and hard. He’d do the same in the morning, and the routine continued.

I’d asked Kallum for the week off, and he gave it to me because he was that kind of guy. The night before her second to last night, I took Aunt V on my ‘date’ with Des. Not surprisingly, they hit it off big time. A part of me had become hopeful over the way they’d teased each other as if they’d known each other for years, at the twinkle in Des’s eyes as he spoke to my Aunt V. I hadn’t said anything, didn’t push it, not with people as bull-headed and stubborn as them. I just sent out a silent little prayer for two wonderful, deserving people to find their happy endings.

Tonight, Aunt V’s last night, Hades was with us. Because he knew what it meant to me. Because he knew how hard it was for me.

He didn’t speak much, but that didn’t bother Aunt V. She fucking loved it, actually.

“You should’ve heard her last boyfriend,” she’d bantered as she chopped onions. “Spoke because the sound of his own voice made his dick hard.” She screwed up her nose. “A man who is comfortable making his actions speak instead of his words is the one who wins. The other one is hopefully living a terrible life.”

I bit my lip as I regarded my wine. Aunt V obviously didn’t know that Derek wasn’t living any kind of life. She also didn’t know that he’d beat me up. Nor did she know how Hades and I had actually met. Not much shocked my Aunt V, but that would shock the fuck out of her and sentence her to a lifetime of worrying about me.

She was perfect knowing what was important, which was that I loved Hades, and he would protect me with his life.

“You know, it is painful, criminal even, that you have a playlist with the title ‘World’s Greatest Music’ yet Madonna is nowhere to be found,” she commented sharply.

I grinned as my phone rang.

“Hello, Freya’s house of pain, how may I help you?” I greeted.

“You cunt.”

My smile froze on my face as I recognized the voice hurling that disgusting word through the phone.

“You stupid fucking cunt,” my mother added. “It’s your fault he died in prison. Your fault that he was there in the first place, by lying like the little bitch you are.”

I had, from time to time, considered what I might say to my mother given the chance. While I’d been quite comfortable never speaking to her or seeing her again in my life, part of me had wanted the confrontation. Wanted to face her as a strong, healthy, successful woman. To look down on her and show her that she had not succeeded in breaking me. That she had failed in so many ways. I’d tell her that I became this despite her, that her life was sad and lonely, and her opinion of me meant less than nothing.

I’d planned to be sharp, strong, articulate. I’d meet her wearing an emotional suit of armor so there wouldn’t even be even a tiny space of skin for her to hit, to pierce it, to make me bleed.