Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,26

the warm water from my lips and look back at Aaron’s face. As soon as he gets out of here, he’s going to punch something. I can tell by the way he skims my bruises, taking in all the damage I received at the hands of a rival gang. Can’t say I blame him. If they’d done this to my girl—whether she wanted a baby or not—I’d be furious.

Inconsolable.

Murderous.

“Don’t tell anyone else yet,” I say, touching my hand to his arm. His skin is hot enough to burn; it draws me to him like a moth to the flame. That’s probably how they think of themselves, Havoc. Like the flame that burned away my wings and kept me trapped here in Prescott.

Well, I know for a fact that Aaron feels that way. Oscar. Maybe Hael. Cal, I don’t know. Vic is the one who would gladly flick the wheel on a lighter and offer it up.

Toxic. Irresponsible. Broken.

That’s me and those boys and this pregnancy-that-isn’t.

I exhale.

“I won’t,” Aaron promises, his voice a fierce slash, some of that anger managing to creep out even though he tries so hard to hide it. “I promise I won’t.” He lets go of my face finally and steps back. “Take your time. When you get out, we can start looking for Cal again. Then you can tell them all together.”

He turns to leave, pauses, and then whirls around so quickly that a small sound of surprise escapes me. Aaron slams his palms against the shower wall on either side of me and takes my mouth like he honestly believes all problems in this world can be solved with the right kind of kiss.

As my fingers come up to brush against his muscular chest, and his tongue takes over my mouth, I think that there’s at least a small chance that he’s right.

“Keep ahold of my leash, your majesty. Because the next time I see somebody with that hideous fucking clown tattoo, I’m going to go daddy Aaron on their asses.” He grabs the side of my neck, kisses me hard enough to bruise, and then lets go, staring down at me with steam and dew collecting on his wavy hair. “Fuck, you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met,” he breathes, finally turning and leaving the bathroom in such a whirlwind that the steam swirls around like clouds in a summer breeze.

A smile almost manages to catch on my lips, but then I remember I have to actually take my cup out and the bleeding starts all over again. There are a few clots, but nothing unusual. If the hospital hadn’t told me my blood tests showed that I was pregnant, I might not realize this was a miscarriage at all.

Aaron comes back shortly, placing the pills on my tongue and sweeping some wet hair back from my face. He leaves a reusable menstrual cup and some fresh clothes on the counter, so that when I reluctantly drag myself out a few minutes later, I have something clean and blood-free to put on.

With my new cup in place—a much heavier duty one this time—and a thick pad on my panties, I mop up the water on the floor with my foot on a crumpled towel, fluff my red-tinged blond hair with my fingers, and ready myself for what I hope isn’t another fruitless search of the city.

I’m not two steps out of the door before someone is wrapping their hand across my lips, reeking of blood and smelling like wet copper.

A captive shout claws its way up my throat, but my instincts are even sharper, faster. I go to slam an elbow back into the gut of whoever this is and find myself surprised when they block my move. Underneath the metallic scent of pain, there’s the familiar murmur of fresh cotton sheets, hung on the line to dry on an easy summer afternoon. Talc. Aftershave. Callum.

“Please don’t scream,” he rasps against my ear, licking the shell of it with a hot tongue. “Help me come down first.” He removes his hand from my mouth as I whirl around to face him, filled with an odd mixture of relief and ire that smells an awful lot like fear.

He’s standing in the shadows of the upstairs landing, hood up, covered in blood. There’s something off about the pale line of his throat. That ire inside of me very quickly reveals itself for what it is: terror.

Cal glances down at his right hand and flexes bloodied fingers,