Page 34 of Always A Villain
“Where was your father?” His sudden curiosity is throwing me off guard. Why now? But I push it aside and continue sharing.
“My parents had a fight. My dad stormed out, and my mom had already tucked me in. The cops said those guysmust’ve been watching us, waiting for the perfect moment. When my dad came home, the police were all over the place. He was hysterical, trying to bulldoze his way in, but they were blocking the door. I saw him, and I ran to him, but he shoved me away, yelling at me not to touch him. Then he screamed at the police to let him through.” Anger bubbles up within me, the memory a raw wound that’s never fully healed.
“Did they catch them?” He looks at me, brow furrowed.
“No.” I meet his gaze, my voice sharp. “And I never understood why. They had DNA; we had security cameras. I remember screaming at my dad, accusing him of not trying hard enough. He’s one of the most powerful Sovereign on the East Coast, and he had an entire police force at his fingertips, yet they found nothing. It didn’t make sense. He could’ve hired the best investigators and trackers, but still—nothing.” Frustration seeps into my voice, tinged with sadness. “But I think it was just too painful for him. Even if they had been caught, it wouldn’t have changed anything. She would still be gone.”
Reaching over, he laces his fingers through mine. I blink, completely thrown off by the unexpected gesture. Axe isn’t exactly the hand-holding type. Or any affection type, if I’m being honest. But here he is, gripping my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And even more surprisingly, I’m not complaining.
He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I.
Exhaustion slams into me, heavy and unrelenting. For a moment, the quiet hum of the engine lulls me, but the silence is short-lived.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re allergic to dairy?”
I give him a side-eye, and he smirks.
“Uh, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re not exactly chatty,” I shoot back. “You don’t ask a lot of questions, and you definitely don’t do small talk.”
He raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk still playing on his lips. “I’m talking now, aren’t I?”
“A rare occurrence.”
“True.” His voice dips, teasing, but there’s a softness in it I don’t expect. “So, you didn’t tell me because...?”
“It never came up.”
“So, do I need to start carrying an EpiPen around or something?” His behavior is unusual, like he's concerned, which is…laughable.
“No, I just throw up and get hives for a few days.”
He hums, lips pursing slightly, like he’s seriously weighing the pros and cons. “I’ll get some EpiPens.”
I blink. “Wait, what? You're serious?”
“Yeah.” No hesitation, no sarcasm. He's dead serious.
“Okay...”
His grip on my hand tightens, thumb tracing lazy circles on my skin. The small, unconscious gesture tugs at something deep inside me, something I don’t want to think about. Because, really, this is Axel Hawthorne—the Reaper. The same man who carried around a severed jaw in an arena, parading his brutality like a badge of honor.
But right now, he's just a guy holding my hand. And damn, it feels...nice.
Inside the house, he stops, turning to face me. Slowly, he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that shouldn’t exist in a man like him.
“Goodnight, little siren.” His lips brush my forehead in a feather-light kiss.
I freeze. I’m not sure how to process this shift, this tenderness that seems so out of place. When he pulls back, his dark eyes lock onto mine.
“Goodnight,” I whisper. He lingers for a second, then turns, disappearing up the stairs.
I stand there, frozen, staring after him. What the hell just happened? Every part of me is tangled in complicated knots, fighting this pull he has over me. It's infuriating. The more time I spend with him, the more I fall for him. And it’s becoming increasingly difficult to remind myself that he doesn't want anything more than sex. I'm his toy and nothing more.
Finally slipping into bed, I try to push the evening out of my head, but it clings to me. His voice echoes in my ears, calling mehis wife.
“The system’s running smooth now.” Griffen tosses me the keys to the Range Rover, leaning back like he doesn’t have a single fucking concern in the world. “The shop replaced the hard drive, updated the software, and installed the perimeter cameras you wanted. Still rides rough, though. Air suspension’s off, but that’s Range Rovers for you.” He smirks. “Not that she’ll notice. Still a hell of a lot better than that piece-of-shit G-Wagon she drives.”
I pocket the keys and take a sip of my coffee, already bracing for another long-ass day at the Iron. Isaac’s been a fucking nightmare since the attack—short fuse, no patience, barking orders like we’re all seconds away from war.
