Page 90 of Hero of Havoc

“What’s wrong?” I blurt, and he gulps, hands planted on the tabletop as he struggles to catch his breath.

“He set me up. That motherfucker set me up,” he snaps, making my muscles clench with worry.

“Why?” Baron asks as Sax speaks too.

“How?”

Archer drags a hand down his face, but it does nothing to ease the tension on his features.

“My mother needs me, and it’s his fault,” he rasps, lifting a hand to his chest as his breath comes in short, sharp bursts.

“You’re not making sense, Archer. Slow down, let us help you,” I insist, and I growl, rage burning past his lips.

“I have to leave because my mother needs me.”

“She needs you how?” Teddy asks, and I swear Archer’s lower lashes gather unshed tears.

“She relapsed.”

20

IVY

Another brush of Archer’s thumb along his compass, and the world shifts around us. Only this time, there are only two of us traveling. Fear churns in my stomach, worry for the others flooding my system as we leave them behind, but I have to take their word that everything will be okay.

As the casino disappears, the ground beneath my feet shifts. I lose the tips of my heels in the gravel as I gape up at a large white house. The double doors stand tall and proud in the center of the building, the entire thing symmetrical, right down to the vines that creep up the drain pipes on either side.

I have so many questions tumbling through my mind as I try to grasp what’s happening, but all that plays on repeat are Archer’s words.

She relapsed.

Relapsed how?

It’s only just dawning on me that he never mentions his mother, only the hatred for his father.

I don’t know what to do with myself, but as I blink at the man beside me, peering up at the house with worry narrowing his eyes, instinct takes over.

Reaching for his arm, I squeeze to comfort him as I press myself against his side. “Archer, whatever you need, I’m right here,” I breathe, and he nods, unable to tear his gaze from the house.

His lips part, the weight of the world riding heavily on his shoulders, but before he can speak a single word, the doors swing open and a scream cuts through the air.

“Shit,” he hisses, charging toward the entrance, and I let him go, maneuvering myself over the gravel as best I can, all the while worrying that my presence is just going to be a hindrance right now.

The last thing he needs is to be worrying about me as well as his mother, but he insisted, refusing to leave me in close proximity to his father without him being present.

Tension ripples through the air as I draw closer, kicking my heels off the second I reach the porch. The screams turn to sobs and cries, no less in volume, as I dare to peek through the door.

The smell of blood surrounds me, and as I cross the threshold, understanding takes root. It pools by the side table to my right, while handprints smear the bright-white walls with pain. A grand chandelier hangs in the center of the room, the staircase swooping up the left wall, while doors lead off in every direction. But none of that matters as my attention settles on my hated mate, cradling a woman in his arms.

He rocks softly, words but a whisper on his tongue as he attempts to soothe her, but I’d be surprised if they’re audible over her cries.

She clings to him, arms around his middle as she sobs into his shirt, blood drying against her cheeks as Archer strokes his hand over her hair.

From this vantage point, you would guess the roles were reversed, and there’s something in the way he cradles her that makes it clear this is a familiar position, but it’s the young girl standing a few steps away who steals my full attention.

In bike shorts and a loose-fitting t-shirt dotted with daisies, she stands with her arms wrapped around her middle, eyes wide and cheeks pale as she gapes at the scene before her. Her hair falls in two French braids down her back, loose ends scattered in every direction, leaving her as disheveled as I feel.

I can see her trembling from here.