Page 100 of Manacled Hearts

“I swim or train with Madds.” I throw her a bone, because for some reason I hate seeing her so uncomfortable.

It’s also peculiar witnessing this side of her. I’ve seen her nervous and shy before, but this is coming from a totally different place. I fucked her sweet cunt with my mouth and fingers, and I bet she’s picturing it even now as she busies herself with the freshly baked muffins, burning her fingers as she tries to pull them out of the muffin tray I had no idea I own.

“Oh, I like training with Madds.” She brightens all over, and a pang of jealousy hits me. “He’s really helped me. I’m not sure what I would have done without him. Especially last night…” She trails off and even though that jealousy burns harsher, I’m going to talk to Severin and ask him to train her even harder. Might even give her a gun.

Because she’s right—if it wasn’t for their training, I wouldn’t be staring at her right now. I wouldn’t have her taste imprinted in my memory. I wouldn’t be smelling these delicious muffins I would have never picked for myself to eat.

“Madds called when I got out of the shower and told me everything. Though I hate that you got involved, you did well. Really well.”

She beams at my praise and the manacle fixed in my chest cracks a little further.

Hating that she got involved isn’t even close to what I’m still feeling. I was on the phone with Madds when they got attacked. I heard his urgent voice, I heard the screams of the women, I heard the punches, the struggle, I heard it all, because he didn’t get a chance to end the call.

Maya was snuggled to my side, snoozing softly after I read to her, and I froze in terror. I heard Frankie’s words to Evelyn, probably not all of them, but I heard enough for everything I never knew I wanted, to shatter before me. I was losing her. I was losing her fast, before I even accepted that she’s mine, before I told her she is, and the déjà vu crept up on me so fast, the blood stilled in my veins.

I was thrown in the back of that car, eight years ago, when Hanna’s pleading voice was begging me to come get her. To find her. Save her. When I implored her to be strong and promised her I would find her. No matter where she was, I would come for her, I would hold her in my arms for the rest of our lives and love her forever. I was back in that moment when all I could hear was the roar of the engine because the call cut off and she was ripped away from me on a heartbreaking cry. I was still there after I hung up, and Maya woke and saw the terror on my features. But I forced my features to smooth and told her we’re going to go to my place for the night and pick up her sister on the way.

For the entire way to the bar I prayed to all the gods I could name that those last few words weren’t a lie. I prayed history wasn’t repeating itself, and Evelyn was still in that parking lot when I got there. But a terrified voice asked a different question inside my head… what if I finally tracked her down and just like Hanna, I would only find a soulless, bloodied body? I urged Mamaw June to pack a quick bag. Very fucking quick. And we were out the door in minutes, forcing myself not to show the emotions that ripped me from the inside out, because I couldn’t let Maya see any of them. June was a saint. Kept her occupied and distracted, even if fear shone in her kind eyes.

Mine was bubbling like a volcano inside my veins, and the shock of it was becoming too much. For months I kept Evelyn at arm’s length, constantly pushing her away and rejecting her, thinking it would ensure I couldn’t get attached to her. How she still burrowed into my soul regardless, I don’t know. But she creeped just beneath the shackles and pushed hard enough for a crack to form.

Regardless, the bindings are still there, reminding me what I know to be true—too much of me is broken, and none of me deserves her. I can’t be what she wants, because she deserves so much more. Someone whole, someone she could lean on, someone who hasn’t fucked half of Queenscove and miles beyond. Someone who can love…

As I look at her now, shyly pottering about my penthouse that seems to smell like a home for the first time in years, if not ever, I realize that letting her go will be much harder than I thought.

And I will have to let her go. Because Evelyn already said she might not stay in Queenscove.

EVELYN

I’m not sure what to make of Finnigan. He looks at me like he found me and lost me all at once. Like I’m here, but just beyond his reach, and I don’t know how to take it. Once again that pain I’m becoming so familiar with is back in his bright-blue eyes, and I itch to reach over and smooth his brow over.

I also want to slap my own hand away because I can deal with the sexual side of things, but getting emotional about the man would be such a huge mistake. Well, getting more emotional about him. He’s a player, screwing everything in sight and never hanging out with someone more than once or twice, according to Lulu and Morri. Top that off with the fact that I technically have to return to Fleeton, and that he clearly told me he can’t do this with me, and I need no further proof that I should guard my heart from him.

Though, I’m not sure that bloody organ is listening.

“Do you want one?” I ask him, holding a warm blueberry muffin to him.

He looks at it like I’m offering him the world in a ring box, then nods finally. “Yes, please.”

I pop two on a plate and slide them over, then grab two for me and one for Maya on separate plates. He leans over and picks up my sister’s plate, directing her to the sofa in the living area to eat, and turns the TV on for her.

“So we can talk freely,” he explains as he sits back down, eying the muffins with more hunger.

He grabs one, taking a tentative bite, and when the flavor hits his tongue, I’m instantly wet at his rumble of pleasure.

“Christ, woman, this is delicious!” He takes another, bigger bite before he even swallows the first, and warmth pools low in my belly.

“Thank you. It’s nothing though, only muffins.”

“Evelyn, I don’t eat muffins. Not because they’re sugary and I’m careful about my diet, but muffins, or any other food, is all the same for me. I taste the different flavors, but there aren’t any that I like more or less. I eat for nutrition, and that’s it. But this”—he looks at that muffin like I baked it with gold and diamonds—“is fucking delicious.”

He takes another mouthful, and the azure of his eyes brightens, the pain that was there more distant now.

“I don’t know what to say.” I genuinely don’t. Is he appeasing me or is he truly honest?

“Say you’ll bake more for me. Different things too. I want to try more!”

I giggle, reaching for my own breakfast, and notice how he stopped, hand mid-air, his hungry gaze fixed on me. But this hunger is not for food.

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