Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,200

to the side, so that I can see Hael. Mine. Always mine. My Havoc Boys.

His mother is crawling over to me now, weeping and shaking and murmuring in French. She continues to whisper to me as she turns me onto my back, drawing my head into her lap.

“It’s okay,” she chokes out, her voice heavily accented. She soon slips back into French, saying beautiful things that I can’t understand as she swipes my hair back from my forehead. I’m coughing now and everything is spinning.

This is how it was supposed to happen. Havoc was always for me. But I was always for Havoc.

“C’mere, Blackbird, c’mere,” Hael is murmuring as he takes me from his mother, his voice breaking as he digs his phone from his pocket with hands dressed in blood. He presses dial and then lifts the phone up to his face. “Come on, come on, answer, damn it …” Hael trails off with a curse, his voice breaking on a rough sob as he murmurs, “mare’s nest” into the phone and then tosses it aside.

I’m vaguely aware of him cupping his hands around his mouth and letting out a piercing howl that slices right through the woods and cuts into the rest of the boys like a knife. A part of me is certain that I can feel them all turning back to look at us, beginning to move, their footsteps heavy and loud on the forest floor.

I must pass out because the next thing I know, I’m surrounded by Havoc and something hurts. It’s the pain that really and truly wakes me up, a violent, wrenching, awful sort of pain that feels endless and all-encompassing, as if I have no choice but to give into it.

Instead of five masculine faces, shaped by time and violence and pain, decadently handsome, perfectly wicked … I see the faces of five sweet boys across the length of a playground. My clothes are too nice for this part of town, and my breathing is shallow because I’m so scared. I’m not sure what they first thought when they all turned and saw me, dressed in designer clothes and quivering.

What must I have looked like? How must I have sounded?

“Bernie!” Victor’s voice is a strange, broken shattered thing. He presses both hands against the wound in my chest, and I cough, spattering Callum’s face with blood. “Damn it.” After a moment, he adjusts himself, digging two fingers into the wound near my heart. “What artery am I trying to pinch off?” he snaps at someone. Hael, I think.

You’re hurting me, is what I try to say, but I can’t seem to make any sound come past my lips. I painted them with a special color today. It’s called Victory but it only tastes like blood. And regret. And goodbyes.

“We need an ambulance,” Aaron is choking out, his phone pressed to his ear as he places his hand over Victor’s, like he just can’t bear not reaching out to help. My eyes find Callum’s, and I see that the blue of them is different somehow. Wet. He has tears. There are tears in his eyes. He’s crying.

He knows.

He fucking knows.

“You were supposed to follow orders,” Oscar says, so detached he may as well be floating a million miles away. He leans over and puts his forehead against mine. He’s shaking, too, I think. It’s hard to tell because everything is getting blurry.

“Blackbird.” It’s Hael’s warm voice, but he doesn’t sound like he’s smiling. Something is wrong. I just want him to smile. I turn my head slightly to one side, but I can’t seem to focus on him. His brown eyes waver in front of me as I try and fail to lift my hand toward him.

“Bernie,” a small voice whimpers, rife with sniffles. I’m barely able to register that it’s Heather calling out to me. Heather, who is safe. Heather. My last remaining sister. My world. My heart.

Warm and soft. I let my heavy lids close as memories sweep over me. Aaron’s shy smile as he gave me a fresh pack of crayons, one where all the tips were sharp and unused, when all his other crayons were broken and dull. Callum when he invited me to dance and made me forget that I was supposed to be crying over my dead dad. Hael as he let me try out his bike, holding it up and pushing me along even after I’d already fallen and scratched it. Oscar using dull children’s scissors