Page 81 of Forged By Shadows
Twisting, I clench my teeth to hold back a grunt and pull her into my lap.
“Little Swan,” I breathe against her neck. She smells sweet, vanilla and honey seeping into my senses. Her hair is in a high bun, a jacket and leggings covering her leotard. Make-up free, her questioning eyes seek out mine. Big and blue. She’s the personification of beauty and strength. I can’t keep this information from her, or the guilt I’m battling against.
“Your father…did you know he wasn’t in prison anymore?” Her eyes harden. Her arms start to fall away from my neck but I don’t let them. I need to do this. “He was released months ago. Just before your mom’s accident.” I hadn’t intended to imply a link in those two statements, but now it’s out there, everyone’s minds are ticking over.
“The letters from Mr. XO,” Axel taps his finger on the table in thought. “You’ve been receiving them since you were adopted, right? He knows your birthday, your likes and dislikes. It makes sense that he could have been writing to you from prison.”
“Stop,” Avery states coldly. It’s too late to put the lid back on this can of worms.
“Now he’s free, and he’s escalating. He’s seen you with us. It’s classic obsessive behavior.” Dax adds, his hand curling around her nape protectively. We’re caging her in, stopping her from bolting, so she removes herself in another way. Staring straight ahead, I’m not sure Avery is even listening to us anymore.
Axel also adds a comforting touch to her thigh, his hazel eyes haunted. “Maybe we should consider that Nixon is on the run. This Walters guy was released, Cathy was killed and you were sent here for safety. Maybe your dad is going after those who he thinks took you away from him.”
“Don’t call him that,” Avery grinds out harshly. We’re quickly losing her. But there isn’t another time. There might not be any time.
“Do you think Wyatt’s on his target list now? What if we all are?” Dax asks, his eyes dropping to my shoulder. I shudder and hug her harder.
“Avery, we need to take you somewhere safe-”
“Stop it! All of you!” Avery shoves her way out of our hold, swiftly moving out of reach. Fury tightens her features as she rounds on me. “You have physio this afternoon, and I have to attend an actual dance practice. Leave the past where it belongs.” Garrett stands, tentatively slipping an arm around her lower back. She lets him, her gaze curious but stern.
“Peach, there could be answers here. We can’t ignore them.” She looks away, straining her neck to the side. I know what she’s thinking - when Garrett is the voice of reason, you know it’s serious. I turn in my chair, holding out an offered hand. She doesn’t take it, but I set aside the hurt that flashes through me. It doesn’t matter, I wanted answers and now I’m ready to offer solutions.
“You know I have resources. I can have him dealt with. No one would ever trace it back to you.”
Avery scoffs. “I would be first in line for questioning.” She analyzes my face, deciding if I’m deadly serious. Realizing I am, her posture stiffens even more. “Don’t you dare do anything stupid. We can’t get involved in this. There’s too much we don’t know.”
Pushing out of Garrett’s hold, he lets her leave. We all watch her storm towards the front door. I almost call after her, wary of the reporters lingering outside about to see her leave unguarded, when I notice Wyatt standing off to the side. His brow is raised, jaw oddly slack as he grabs his jacket and heads after her. The door is closed after them with a definitive slam. As a whole, we exhale.
“Well, what a shit show that was,” Garrett rubs the back of his neck. One by one, the guys disperse and I remain, arms laid on either side of the closed laptop.
Avery is in denial. I understand that. She’s scared. I recognize that. But I don’t have the option to sit by and wait for the next gunman to make his move. Next time, I might not be so lucky and despite Avery’s objections, we’re already very much involved.
Chapter Fifty Five
I’m such a hypocrite. I’ve been forcing Huxley to rush through his demons and leave his room, and at the first sight of my own trauma, guess where I am? Propped against my headboard, my lap covered in Mr. XO’s letters. The box of my mom’s things, which is usually tucked beneath the bed, sits on the floor, the lid at an angle. I thought I’d find comfort in handling her perfume bottle, hairbrush, a photo frame with the pair of us in…but no. I didn’t. Instead, I turned where I probably shouldn’t - the letters.
I’ve re-read them all, and I’m more certain than ever that the boys are wrong. I know my birth father, and he doesn’t speak like this. In my entire childhood, there was never so much as a compliment. I was a brat, the waste of space who ruined his life. Everything was wrong and everything was my fault. These letters are precious, understanding. I’d forgotten all about the one crumpled against my chest right now, and I peel it back to read for the fourth time today.
Avery. Your presence brings so much joy to those lucky enough to be around you. I have written songs I hope to share with you in person someday. I imagine us spending time together, talking about our dreams and passions. I know that if you got to know me, you would feel the same way. Yours, XO.
It’s not the most poetic letter I’ve received, but there’s a hidden hope within. A promise of meeting in the future, whoever this person may be. They care about me, and in turn, they’ve become my secret guilty pleasure. How many nights have I dreamt of a prince charming turning up on the doorstep, prepared to whisk me away from my tower? Too many to let Fredrick Walters sully those memories.
A light knock sounds on my door. I shove the letters into a hasty pile, put them in the box with my mom’s stuff and shove it back under the bed. The door pops open a few inches and I’m stunned to see Wyatt standing there.
“Can I come in?”
“Depends what you want to talk about,” I pout. I’m being irrational. The information shared downstairs yesterday afternoon wasn’t anything new. But I hadn’t wanted the guys to know that version of me, especially Wyatt. He has enough ammunition, and despite his opposing perception, I know I’m so much more than my misgivings.
Wyatt steps into the room, remaining close to the exit. He shifts, unsure of where to put his hands. First in his pockets, then out, then pushing through his hair and back down to his jean-clad thighs. I raise a brow, as if I’m not moping around in pink silk pajamas beneath the covers.
“I just wanted to let you know I’m going to be having some people look into the crash, now that new information has come to light.” My stomach plummets. Of course the coincidence of my father’s release and Cathy’s death is too big to ignore, no matter how much I want to bury my head in the sand. If he really is responsible, and the Hughes’ are being targeted by association with me, I don’t think I’ll be able to live with that knowledge. Her blood will be on my hands.
The silence stretches out, and Wyatt seems to feel inclined to fill it. “There might be…questions for you to answer, and I hope you’ll cooperate.” He’s smoothing his hair back again, avoiding my eye contact.
“It’s fine, Wyatt. I get it.” I chew on my inner cheek, my mind racing while I have Wyatt’s attention. “Have you spoken to Nixon at all?” There’s a tick in his jaw and he rolls his neck. Apparently that wasn’t the right question to ask.
“He’s ignoring my calls.”
