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.
Then he spins her around, his hands on her upper arms.
I dart a glance at her ass, small but round in those black shorts, and I think about how good it would feel to hate fuck her, but I don’t want to give her the fucking satisfaction. And besides that? After he’s been inside of her?
I don’t fucking want her.
“Let’s go,” Mav says, and he wraps his tattooed arm around her shoulder, glaring at me as he reaches for the door.
“I don’t fucking think—” I start to say.
“Yeah, that’s your problem,” he snarls at me, still holding my gaze as he pulls the door open and a chime rings out in the house.
I want to smash that goddamn alarm and everyone in here’s bones.
I clench my hands into fists and open my mouth to retort, but Mav’s eyes dart past me, up at Ophelia, still silent at my back.
“Get her out of this house or I’ll get her out in fucking pieces,” he snarls.
“You know they might come after her too,” I say in a rush, not referring to O. I know he’s going to leave, I know I can’t stop him, and I kind of don’t want to.
But still. The thought of her, in someone else’s arms again…it hurts.
Mav doesn’t say anything in response to my warning. Instead, he pushes Sid through the door and slams it closed.
“Lucifer—”
I spin around, cutting off whatever the fuck Ophelia was going to say to me as I stare up at her.
I should send her home. My wife obviously fucked Jeremiah, and that thought is like a punch to the gut. It makes me want to hurl.
I feel like the room is fucking spinning.
But I did the same thing to her.
Even still, knowing that she let him touch her like I touched her? If it had been anyone else, if she’d fucked his guard, or fucking London goddamn Hamilton or anyone at all…
Fuck.
“Go to my room,” I tell O, raking a hand through my hair, thinking about the coke I’ve got in my dresser. “I’ll be there soon.”
She wraps her arms around her chest, rocks back and forth on the step. I imagine her slipping and falling. Breaking her fucking neck, and I imagine the satisfaction I might feel if it happened.
She’s been a good friend, one of my earliest. But I don’t want her. I don’t think I’ve ever