Page 132 of Boy of Ruin
Ophelia’s eyes dart past me, but I don’t dare turn around even as I hear multiple people crowding at my back.
The door closes softly.
Someone mutters, “Not this shit,” and I tense. That’s Ezra’s deep rumble.
I still don’t look. I just keep staring at Ophelia, who’s staring at the people behind me. The Unsaints, I’m sure.
After a tense moment of silence, my husband finally breaks it. “Welcome home, baby girl,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his words.
She turns to run, because that’s what she fucking does. Whipping around in a blur, she’s shooting straight for the door, but there are five of us and my wife is tiny.
She’s not fucking going anywhere.
Maverick gets to her first.
It’s like watching a wild animal caught in a net, the way she twists and kicks and tries to hit him. She might be small, but she’s full of rage.
I glance up at Ophelia, see her watching me with a scowl. Whatever. Cain obviously beat us here.
He was at Ezra’s when I jogged down there.
I turn back to Mav, watch him grab Lilith from behind, pin her arms down to her sides. Her chest is heaving beneath his arms and I don’t like it. I don’t like what she’s wearing—a skintight top and short shorts—and that she’s flush against him, but I don’t move.
Her eyes are wide, but it’s like she’s not seeing. She’s still twisting in his grip, trying to kick her foot back, trying to hit his groin. But he puts a leg around hers, squeezes her so tight I see her eyes widen as he does, and she stills in his arms.
“Calm down, Angel,” he whispers.
I shove my way toward them, coming to stand in front of them both. I hear Ezra’s deep laugh, bitter and low, and resist the urge to break his fucking nose. He’s got bigger problems to worry about, so he should shut the fuck up.
Cain strolls down the hall without looking back, letting everyone else handle the mess that is my life. Atlas scrubs a hand over his face, eyes full of exhaustion.
Things aren’t going well with him and Natalie, and although I kind of feel for him at the moment, things are going fucking godawful for me and my wife, so I also can’t find it in me to care too much.
“Let’s get a drink,” Ezra says, placing his hand on Atlas’s shoulder, his words calm, as if we didn’t just find out through a video call that his mother is missing.
Atlas looks to me, adjusting the backward cap on his head. It’s as if he’s asking for permission to leave us.
I don’t need his help dealing with my wife for the simple fact that it is impossible for anyone to deal with my fucking wife.
I nod, and him and Ezra walk off after Cain, into the kitchen. It’s a testament to the fucked up world of the 6 that Ezra isn’t more upset about this shit.
I am, though.
Because it means whoever it is that’s targeting us likely isn’t linked to Jeremiah, unless this is some fucked up mind game that he’s trying to play. To get back at us. At me.
Sid’s eyes are closed, and I slide my hands into my pockets, staring at her.
Mav’s eyes are on me, his arms still around Sid’s small body, but I don’t look at him. Or Ophelia, who hasn’t moved from the stairs.
“I want to get out of this house,” Sid says through clenched teeth. Her brow is furrowed, her small tits rising and falling just below Mav’s arm, which is over her stomach, one hand on her hip, above her shorts.
I want his hands off of her right fucking now.
“You’re not leaving,” I snarl, getting in her face.
Her eyes fly open, connecting with mine. “Mayhem,” she whispers, staring right at me, “get me the fuck out of here and get me to Jeremiah.”
I grit my teeth, lift my hand like I might hurt her—and fuck, I want to but I’m not going to—and Mav pulls her back, away from me.
