Havoc (8 page)

Thinking of her, I slide out of the guest
bathroom and decide to walk by my own—no reason to impose on her
more than necessary. Though, I imagine her soaking wet probably
looks like an adolescent fantasy. My body starts to stiffen. Not
now.

No sound of running water, meaning she must
be done. I lean closer, hoping to hear her stir, the smallest sign
that she is indeed OK on the other side of the white door. Then
there's a crashing sound followed by the words, “I can't breathe .
. .”

I toss the door open and fall to her side,
swooping her into my arms like a scared, wounded bird. Tears fill
her eyes as she buries her face on my shoulder, one hand clutching
my coat for leverage, the other on her own stomach.

“Alpha,” I whisper, my fingers stroking the
side of her head, entangling themselves in knots of water and
tangles. Haven continues to shake and shiver, trapped once more in
some sort of traumatic tornado of emotions she got swept away in. I
cannot handle this sight. But this moment isn't about me. She needs
me to be strong so she can be weak. I pull her in close, applying
pressure against her white, towel-coated body, almost like placing
her in a protective cage that nothing short of the hand of God
could break through. I just need her to remember she's safe here
with me. Protected. Just one spark of memory of that safety, and I
know she'll be all right. I know she still trusts me.

I don't move, say a word, or reposition
myself until I finally feel a bit of relief release itself from her
body. She raises her head so that her eyes fall into mine. With a
shaky hand, she reaches out to touch me as if verifying I'm real,
if this is real.

Her hand, now clean and free from the tier of
terror it was trapped in before, gently drags itself down my face,
right beside my eyes, “You're eyes . . . have sunflowers in
them.”

They're blue, but the way the yellow flakes
circle around and clump together, many people see a sunflower. Mom
used to say it was because they were her favorite flower that God
put them in my eyes. She said He gave them to her in a way that
sunflowers could never wither away, in a vase she could always
treasure that would never break. Well, she was almost right. I
broke when I watched her die, and I'm breaking again right now
watching this angel go through this nightmare.

In a whisper, I answer, “They do.”

Haven sighs, her hand coming away from me,
gearing up for what looks like an apology. Her perfect pair of
round lips slip open to speak.

“Don't.” The order comes out. My large hand
goes to her small face, thumb stroking the bruise on her right
cheek. This angel has nothing to apologize for, ever.

I rise to my feet and help her back onto her
own. Not another word is said as I pick up the towel I imagine was
in her hair and gently give the ends of her hair a tussle. As
carefully as I dried the ends, I wipe the water off her shoulders
and upper arms, taking my time, savoring ever pattern, mole, and
line that I can. Breathtaking. How can I think she's anything but
an angel?

When she's dry, I pick up the dog tags from
the counter top, which is when I notice two wedding bands there as
well. They must be her parents’. She must've been holding onto
them, hiding them, keeping what she could of them still alive,
never allowing the monster whose days are now running short to take
that one last thing from her. I break the bracelet band to the tags
and slip the rings onto the same chain. After closing it back up, I
place the chain back around her neck, lift her hand to it, and give
it a soft pat.

Her trembling hand slowly reaches up for
mine, fingertips barely brushing it. With a nod, I back out of the
bathroom slowly, leaving the door cracked just in case.

Impatiently, I wait on the downstairs couch
in a bit of disbelief. Am I forcing her to go to this dinner? My
head falls into my hands from the stress I keep battling. I know
how to handle my stress, but I can't seem to get a good handle on
it at the moment. She really should stay behind. She had a meltdown
in the bathroom just twenty minutes ago, and she was all alone.
It's understandable. It's all understandable. She barely escaped
the pit of hell. She needs quiet. Parading her in front of people?
In front of strangers? This is a stupid idea. It's like a test from
Sir. Am I capable of making the right calls when it comes to her?
Of course. Sometimes. Maybe. I don't know. I need to march up there
and tell her to take a sleeping pill to just relax. I need to
explain to her it's better for her. I won't worry any less and most
likely bail out on my own party earlier than I would have but
thankful to have a legit excuse to walk away. That would be the
right call.

The sound of a footstep brings my face up.
Haven is standing at the bottom of the stairs looking like
something out of an old photograph, something refreshed and
redesigned, something that's got every word I was about to utter
under wraps. From the dress to the shoes I stumbled across in the
hall closet from one Sir's conquests, she radiates extraordinary. I
can't even fathom what to say to her right now.

My jaw tries to move but can't. I stand up
and approach her.

In a girlish tone, she says, “Can you believe
I'm the same girl you saw a few minutes ago?”

I stick my arm out for her to wrap her hands
around, “Yes.”

She blushes, and I'm proud to be the one to
warm her cheeks.

“And there's nothing wrong with being that
girl I saw a few minutes ago.” It's OK for her to be weak in the
journey of learning to be strong. She's beautiful whether she’s
whimpering over hauntings from a world I'll never understand or
charming in an expensive piece of dinner wear. To be honest, I
think she's more captivating in a raw element like I saw before. I
just don't like knowing what makes her feel that way.

We head toward the front door until she yanks
me to halt by simply saying my name, “Clint.” At that moment, the
world shuts down. Sounds, sights, and every bit of attention I have
zones in on her. I try not to be intimidated by how she has that
effect. “Do you think when I get a new identity, I could keep the
name Haven?”

I need to tell her no. It's not smart. It
damn sure isn't safe. Part of relocating and starting over is
leaving memories good or bad behind a barrier that no one touches,
including you. Her dark-brown eyes seem to be fighting back a tear,
waiting to drop if I give her the answer she doesn't want. I won't
be the reason that tear falls. Not now. Not ever. Not if I can help
it.

“Yes.”

She smiles, and my heart melts. Anything is
worth seeing her smile, even if it is just a soft one of thanks.
God help me. I'm screwed.

Our walk is brisk, the cool air making her
fragile frame shiver. I immediately sense her discomfort and
prepare to take off my blazer. I'll be damned if she's cold. Any
sort of protection she needs is my job, down to temperature. As I
move, she leans in closer as if that's going to be enough.
Thankfully, Mrs. Callaghan lives just across the street in a
“house” that can barely be qualified as such. The looks of it
teeter on mansion. Too much space if you ask me.

When I open the door, we are greeted by a
party that seems quite lively without us. That is the norm for me.
The scene is caked with couples that look around Sir's age with
just a few faces closer to mine. Everyone is dressed in similar
attire, not quite evening formal but not a jeans and T-shirt
either. If it were up to me, it would always be jeans and T-shirt.
But this pleases Mindy. With all she does, between the food and
hosting, I can sacrifice putting on a dinner jacket.

Eyes drift in our direction, and the
judgments that are being passed are clear. Instant. Remarks being
made in their heads. Conclusions drawn. Evaluations growing,
waiting to come directly at us.

My eyes see Le Le in a short, red cocktail
dress—tight, low cut. Not sure she owns any other kind. While I'm
staring at her, she's staring at Haven like the girl’s invading her
territory, like Haven has taken her favorite toy away from her.
Jealousy, it’s one of the three emotions she cycles through
continuously. I don't have the tolerance for it, not now
especially. As if she heard me, she shoves her nose high in the
air, making a very precise nonverbal declaration of war.

Feeling Haven tense up beside me, I whisper,
“Alpha,” in her ear before steering her in the opposite direction
of that disaster. As much as I want to say Le Le wouldn't cause
drama on a night like this, that would be a lie. She is the
definition of dramatic. The bigger the stage, the bigger the
performance.

Once we're further in the room, I see Sir
lingering at a round table surrounded by the other men who have
played a hand in raising me, all with beverages in their
possession. The copper-color liquid looks a little low in their
glasses. Each looks rather uncomfortable. My guess is the topic of
Haven is the cause for the disturbance.

Mindy slides into our view, her body in a
very short, very sharp, yet very classy little black number. Her
blonde hair now falls gracefully to one side of her face with large
curls in it, pearls shining brightly from each of her ears and
around her neck. Her makeup looks as flawless as always. Unlike my
mother was, she's always dressed like something out of a designer
catalog.

“Slugger,” she greets me, humming my name as
my thumb strokes Haven's arm. To my surprise, Haven draws herself
out from under my touch. That grabs my attention. A gaze flows from
those brown rivers that will be my demise. Briefly, her eyes
flicker. The message is delivered, received. Not now. She wants me
to let go. Why? I wanna know. No, I need to know. Why was it OK,
yet now it's not? Did I do something wrong? Did I move too quickly?
Was my touch too rough? God, this is frustrating. It's like a war
with too many fronts. At times, it seems my touch soothing, at
other times terrifying. It hurts. But I understand. At least, I
want to understand.

“Ma'am.” I force my attention away from
Haven's change in mood. Maybe it's the amount of people. Maybe it’s
too much pressure. Maybe I should just get her out of here.
Maybe–

“Haven,” offers Mindy like a hand in
greeting, “you look stunning.”

My face turns so it's taking her in, “I
agree.”

Mindy follows with, “That dress is fabulous.
And you in it are just gorgeous. You know Slugger's mom had one
just like it.”

A shiver runs down my back, “It is hers.”

“Oh.” The reaction rocks her in her heels
just the slightest. If you weren't trained in the field of
observation, you wouldn't have noticed. Her eyes trail back to me.
I wait patiently. I know she wants to declare something, say
something about the fact it was my mother’s, about the fact it
meant so much to her, about how they would consider a stranger
presenting herself in it disrespectful. Instead, her demeanor does
a 180 back to inviting, back to exciting.

“You are quite the topic of discussion, my
dear.” Her manicured hand gently touches Haven's shoulder. “And for
good reason. It sounds like you're joining our little family here
in Reckonberg.”

My face returns to its steel default setting.
That means I was right. Haven was what the look of discomfort on
the men's faces was about. I hate the idea of them judging her
without me around. Without me to stand up for her. Without me to
declare that she is worth it. Without me to declare she's worth
what they will all have to contribute.

“Relax, Slugger,” Mindy's voice cuts through
the self-destructive whirlwind of thoughts. They just make me
angrier, more tense. And right now, Haven needs me relaxed. Or at
least what she thinks is me relaxed. I'm not even sure I know what
I look like relaxed. “Everything is going to be fine. Whiskey's
informed all of us.”

Whiskey, the nickname the others call Sir.
It's never been stated if it's because of his name Johnny Walker or
because it's his choice of weakness. I guess I never cared to ask.
Most likely, Haven will.

In a small, panicked voice, choking on her
terror, Haven croaks, “So everyone knows? Everyone knows I–”

“Relax,” Mindy's tone is very motherly now.
It's the same she uses with me. “No one knows any details. The
briefing was, for lack of a better word, brief. Actually, to be
frank, most of us are wondering how you escaped. Care to clue us
in?”

With that, Haven's arms wrap themselves
around mine as she denies the offer. Her gentle face aims toward
the ground. Poor angel. Frightened. This party, these questions are
not making anything better. She squeezes tight. I give her hand a
pat. While I'm glad she's back in my touch, I wish it weren't
because she was scared.

“That's fine,” Mindy tosses her wine-free
hand at us. “It's not important. What's important is that you're
safe now.” Those words send my eyes back up to Mindy’s crystal
blues, which are singing an emotion I don't recognize. She repeats,
but this time to me, “No need to worry, Slugger. She's safe
now.”

I find myself mouthing my gratitude. “Thank
you.”

“Haven,” she calls out in a gentle tone. Once
my angel's eyes have risen, she politely smiles, “Please enjoy the
evening.”

Mindy starts sauntering away toward Le Le,
whose eyes I'm not sure have left us since we walked in. After
nodding at several faces who’ve acknowledged my presence, I lead
Haven over to the food. She still hasn't eaten. Damn it. I knew I
should have tried to convince her to eat something before she
showered. She must be starving by this point. Hell, she was
probably starving then. I should know better. Get a grip, Marine.
Do your damn job!

I pick up a plate and pile just a few items
on, carefully selecting each item with purpose. The expensive glass
plate with golden designs swirled around the outside passes from my
grip to hers, “Here. Eat slow. Small bites. Your body will process
it better. I picked things that will be lighter on your stomach.
Not too rich in taste.”