I divert my gaze to the view from the window. It is just like the one in our old room, but with a better view of the canals to the south.
In our old room.
Glancing away from him, I look at the hole in the wall, then back to him again. I gather my thoughts. Channel my emotions. Is this really happening? A few months ago, the mere thought of this would have excited me to the point of frenzy. Now though, after Erik, after all the secrets, the excitement at the prospect of sharing my daily life with Max Butcher is also coiled with concern. Tainted with it.
"I love Max. He didn't choose his lifestyle."
"Yeah, but you still can."
Worry winds itself around my heart and lungs, making it hard to breathe. I want peace for him - burden free and open. The man I see smiling after a game of rugby. The one content in my arms after an intimate moment. The one withme.
My Max.
I seek out his gaze. "I want a normal life for us. For you."
Those tempestuous deep-set eyes fix me with their intensity. "Tell me, what does that look like to you?"
I sigh, a little sad that he doesn’t already know what that means. I don't really know what Max Butcher, son of Luca, heir to a corrupt empire, looks like after he leaves me alone in his bed. I'm not sure I want to. I do know, as clear and true as my love for him is, whatmy Maxlooks like. "A nine-to-five job. Home for dinner every night. Holding each other all night long. Rugby on the weekends. . . Bruises that can be explained." I touch the red-purple discolouration on his jaw. Wincing as if his pain were my own, I say, "I don't want violence to be so trivial to you, Max."
He threads his fingers through mine, lowering my hand. The tunnelling grey eyes of the man who consumes me soften further as they search my face. "The bruises are from boxing. I told you that."
"And the rest of what I said?"
"That's a fairy-tale."
"It doesn’t have to be," I state adamantly, thinking about how my parents have dinner together every night with fresh-cut flowers, settings and placemats on the table. Even when their children are too preoccupied or busy, they still spend dinner together. I think about how they still shower together every night. Still steal touches and kisses when they think no one is looking.
"I'll give you everything I have to give," he murmurs, stroking his palms down my cheeks.
I press into his firm, possessive touch, closing my eyes to feel the warmth of those hands. Suddenly, I'm fraught with the vision of Max and his brothers soaking in ice baths, beaten and bruised. My eyes bat open. He's lived in a kind of emotional poverty. I'll show him it's possible. A real and sweet, however normal, existence. I'll give Max Butcher the fairy-tale.
I'll give him peace and placemats. "Itispossible."
Searching his eyes as they scan my face affectionately, I want to ask if he's in danger, want reassurance he will come home at night in one piece because God, I won't survive losing him. And this is it now. A big leap towards a forever with Max Butcher and oh my gawd, that sinks in. This isn't life-changing news about someone else; this isourlife-changing news. Life-sealing news. Life-fricking-cementing news. Instead of all that rambling, I simply agree, "I'll move in."
His lips curve, setting into that magnetic, yet menacing Max Butcher grin.
I smile back, unable to refuse him when he's like this. When he's calm. Relaxed. "You're so happy right now, why?"
"Wallabies won against the All Blacks," he states with a shrug, picking up the mallet and throwing it through the wall. When white clouds of dust fly around the room, Max's eyes snap to me. "Leave until it's clean in here, little one." When I giggle at that, he lets out a long, satisfied sigh. "I've missed that sound."
"Why are you so happy?" I repeat.
He slowly runs his tongue along his lower lip. "I can still taste you."
I bite back a nervous smile. "Max."
"Youmake me happy, Cassidy. Remember?"
Cassidy
With a pairof angel wings strapped to my back, I rush around, trying to find candles and a lighter as the party carries on around me. This is the very first party I've ever hosted.Ever.My mum and Flick usually do the honours. They are the queens of hosting parties with their extensive lists of friends and their expert tastes in food and wine.
Luckily for me, though, Bronson's birthday falls on Halloween, so I got away with making fun spooky-inspired food and silly multicoloured beverages. I'm all over that.
As for the guests, it wasn't exactly hard to get most of the District here given The Butcher Boys' social status - especially Bronson's. He's, well. . . he's a paradox. There isn't a girl here who wouldn't climb him like the tall, muscular, colourfully carved tree that he is.
Well, besides me, Flick, and Stacey.