And I love him for it.
Zaid and Lucas look grim as they walk back into the foyer. Zaid hands a small white piece of paper to Hale. As Hale’s blue eyes glance over it, the color drains from his face. His gaze shoots to me.
My stomach twists into a tight knot, my lungs aching with the effort of dragging in air.
Whatever it is, I know I don’t want to see it.
But I have to.
He hands it to me without a word. The paper is expensive, thick and smooth beneath the tips of my fingers. I turn it over in my hand, trying to ignore the way it’s spattered with blood, the vibrant red smeared by Zaid’s fingerprints.
I read over the note several times, and each time I do, my gaze sticks on three little words.
Grace.
Meeting.
Camilla.
My mother wants to meet with me.
She obviously knows I’m aware of her existence, since she figured out that Leland was gathering information for us—I’m sure she tortured him into admitting everything he told us. And now she wants to speak to me, face-to-face.
I shove the note back at Hale as if it’s burned my fingers. “Thank you,” I say, swallowing. “Thank you for showing it to me.”
He nods slowly, watching my reaction like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on inside my head. Inside my heart.
But the truth is, I’m so numb I don’t know how to react. How I should react. All I can hear is the rush of my heart, blood thundering in my ears.
“Maybe we should take a second,” Zaid suggests, his gaze flicking from me to Hale. “We’ll finish dealing with the mess, then we can sit down and figure out what to do.”
Hale nods, although he doesn’t look away from me. “I’ll have a team come pick up the body. Ciro, will you stay with Grace?”
“Yes.”
I’m a little surprised at Ciro’s immediate answer. I’ve gotten the feeling he specifically tries to avoid being alone with me ever since the night he attacked me while in the grip of a night terror. Even though I tried to make him see that I’m not afraid of him, that I still trust him, I don’t think he trusts himself.
Despite the shock ricocheting through me at my mother’s summons, I shoot Ciro a grateful glance as he walks beside me into the living room. He leads me over to the couch, then steps toward the liquor cabinet to pour me a stiff drink.
I’m honestly not sure I can keep anything down right now, but I don’t tell him that. I know he wants to take care of me, and I think we both need something to focus on.
To my surprise, when he hands me a crystal glass with a finger of whiskey in it, the rich, smoky smell doesn’t turn my stomach. I take a tentative sip, and the warm burn travels all the way down my throat, soothing me a little.
It doesn’t take long for the other three men to join us. Whatever business they had to attend to, they clearly rushed through it so that we could discuss this new development as soon as possible.
They each grab a drink too, although instead of sipping his like I am, Hale downs the contents of his glass in one swallow.
“I’m not going to allow a meeting to happen between Grace and Camilla.” He grimaces, picking up the bottle and pouring himself another. “It’s too fucking dangerous. We know what she’s capab
le of now, if we didn’t already. And letting Grace see her mother would be like feeding her to a lion.”
I respect Hale’s leadership, and I trust him more than I ever would’ve thought possible when he and the others first crashed back into my life—but that doesn’t stop the flare of anger that wells up inside of me. That’s not his call to make, and refusing to meet with her would only focus her wrath on the four men who are trying to protect me. I can’t let that happen.
“I want to see her,” I say, surprising myself and thankful for the strength in my own voice. Hale’s gaze jerks toward mine, and I force myself to continue. “I need to see her.”
His jaw twitches, the only outward sign of irritation. “It’s too dangerous.”
Hale doesn’t like his orders being challenged, but I’m not going to put my head down for this one. Camilla is not just his enemy, she’s my mother. My biological mother, the woman who gave fucking birth to me. She’s just as much a part of me as my father was, whether or not I like it.