Page 75 of Fool Moon First Aid

“Thanks.” I feel a blush forming, so I clear my throat and gesture down the hall. I need to get ready for tonight, and I need them to let me go. “Tyler?—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he cuts me off. “What if we are on standby?”

I heave out a breath. Having them on standby means I won’t be completely alone. If anything goes wrong, then they will be there for me. “I can’t tell you how much I needed your trust.”

His laugh is playful yet edged with something deeper. His eyes darken as he stalks toward me, and I take a step back, my backside hitting the cool wood.

My head falls back to gaze up at him, my breathing becoming shallow as he hovers over me, his forearms resting on the wood above my head. “Make no mistake, I don’t want you going.” He dips his head, surprising me as his lips linger precariously close to mine. “Brody doesn’t want you going.” The heat of his breath gusts over my lips. “Ethan doesn’t want you going.”

I swallow thickly.

“Butterfly, if it were up to me, I’d toss you over my shoulder, take you back to the house, and tie you to the bed.” His lips touch mine so lightly, it’s almost fleeting, and a whimper slips from my lips. “There, we’d take turns making you scream with so much pleasure, you’d forget all about that pesky little dinner.”

“I have my period,” I blurt out, because that’s the part I get hung up on, not that he wants to tie me to the bed. I don’t know when Tyler’s thoughts shifted, but I can’t decide if I’m mad about them or not.

His lips graze over mine and to my ear, where he whispers, “A little blood will never scare a wolf.” He presses his body to mine, making me moan. “Go shower. We wouldn’t want you to be late for your date, now would we?” He steps away, leaving me cold.

Yeah, I need to shower, but not before I text Mia and ask her for a background check on these three.

Ava

The afternoon sun casts the room in a golden glow, painting everything with lazy warmth as I nestle into my favorite armchair. It’s threadbare, but it’s mine. Ethan’s shower might have been a cascade of luxury, but my humble bathroom offers its own brand of comfort, the hot water working miracles on my stiff muscles. Now, cocooned in my blankets that carry the clean, comforting scent of lavender, I let myself drift toward sleep, my head finding the perfect nook in the lumpy pillow for a blissful nap.

A scream slices through the tranquility like a knife, jerking me from the edge of sleep. Disoriented, I linger in the space between dreaming and wakefulness, half expecting Tyler’s reassuring presence beside me, but the reality is a cold, empty space. Hugging myself, I take a steadying breath, letting the familiar scents of home reel me back to the present. The mouthwatering aroma of food cooking beckons, my stomach chiming in with a rumble of approval.

Determined to leave the unsettling remnants of my dream behind, I rise, my feet padding softly against the cold floor. The promise of food guides me out of the bedroom, where Tyler wields a spatula with the ease of a seasoned chef. His back is to me, his muscles shifting under the fabric of his shirt as he flips a grilled cheese with a flick of his wrist. A wave of desire hits me, sparking fantasies of tracing those muscles with my fingertips, of stealing a kiss, of tasting him…

He turns, and the sunlight crowns him in a halo of light, accentuating his chiseled jaw and the playful spark in his eyes. “Hungry?” His voice is a velvet caress, rich and inviting. A flush spreads across my cheeks as his gaze sweeps over me, lingering just a moment too long on my hastily chosen dress.

For you. Yes. “Just a bit,” I reply, my voice a mix of eagerness and restraint as I accept the sandwich he offers. The world outside the kitchen window transitions to the soft hues of twilight, and I find myself nibbling on the sandwich, each bite an attempt to anchor myself to the present so I don’t have to think about the future—the one where I have to see my dad.

“Sit. Eat,” Tyler instructs, his tone gentle yet commanding. I comply, feeling a bit like a marionette as I limp to the table, my movements exaggerated by the stiffness in my leg. The apartment, small and unassuming, suddenly feels transformed by his presence, every corner touched by a sense of belonging. I notice the small changes—the tidiness that wasn’t there before, and the vase of freshly cut flowers that adds a splash of color and life to the room.

“I hope this is all right,” he says, a hint of vulnerability in his voice as he gestures to the makeshift dinner setup.

“It’s perfect,” I whisper, the words barely escaping as I realize our time is fleeting, overshadowed by the impending dinner with my estranged father. The thought constricts my heart with a mix of dread and resignation.

Time seems to exist in a bubble, where I don’t want it to speed up, but it does. Evening descends, and the streetlamps outside bathe the world in a soft, orange glow. Tyler’s kiss on my forehead sparks a cascade of goose bumps, his proximity a bittersweet reminder of what I could lose. “Don’t think for one second we won’t have eyes on you, Ava,” he murmurs, his breath a warm whisper against my ear, igniting comfort and longing. “You are never alone, Ava. Even if you can’t see or feel us yet, we feel you.”

With Tyler gone, the apartment feels emptier, the silence louder. I watch his retreating figure through the window, a knot of anxiety in my stomach as the clock ticks down to my father’s arrival. Fingers trembling, I touch the cool pearls on my neck, the last vestige of my mother, and brace myself. Donning a simple, elegant wrap dress and cardigan feels like armor as I brace myself for the inevitable scrutiny of my father’s judging gaze.

I catch my reflection—a mix of elegance and compliance, ready for an occasion far removed from the casual dinner that awaits. The absurdity of molding myself to fit his expectations strikes me, and I’m left pondering the delicate balance between peacekeeping and self-erasure.

As my father’s black sedan rolls up, a twist of unease knots in my stomach. Each time he shows up, it feels like stepping onto a stage, the spotlight too bright and the audience too critical. I expect no grand greetings from Dad. With a sigh that feels like it’s dredging up resignation and defiance, I lean on my crutches as if they’re the only ally I have in facing my dad. I grab my purse and make my way to the door.

Sebastian, my father’s driver, greets me, his face weathered by years of navigating my father’s demands. He’s caught in a moment of hesitation, his knock suspended in midair. “Bast,” I say, injecting a bit of warmth into the chilly air between us.

He smiles, his features transforming into a vivid expression of joy and resilience. “Well, let me have a look at you,” he says, his voice a comforting blend of gravel and silk. “Beautiful as always, just like your mama,” he adds, and today of all days, his words strike a chord, sending a ripple of emotion through me. I quickly divert my gaze, not ready to explore the depths of that sentiment.

I shift the conversation to lighter territory. “How’s Minnie?” I ask, eager to hear tales of his feisty little Yorkshire terrier.

“Ah, as spirited as ever.” Sebastian chuckles, his laughter a welcome distraction from the tension.

“Would you mind locking up?” I request, making my way to the front door with a show of independence. Sebastian is already there, a step ahead, his actions speaking volumes of his quiet support. “Thank you,” I murmur, feeling a wave of gratitude mixed with a tinge of melancholy.

“Pleasure’s all mine, Ms. Thompson,” he responds, his smile sincere but carrying an undercurrent of seriousness. The way he emphasizes my father’s last name, and not my mama’s, is a soft warning. I nod in acknowledgment, silently bracing myself to face my dad.

As I settle into the car, the leather seat feels like an old friend, despite the company. I brace myself as Dad’s presence fills the space, like a silent force field of expectation and scrutiny. His greeting is absent, his attention fixed somewhere beyond me.

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