Page 94 of Hell and High Water

The sinking feeling in my chest collapses completely.

“And tell him he's never getting his ring back. I took it to the grave, so to speak.”

17

HELLENA

Alaya’s voice echoes in my head, long after she’s gone, the words replaying over and over.

Of course, Gavin has a past.

“His ring… his ring…”

Don’t get me wrong, I trust Gavin. I don’t care that he had a past. Everyone does.

I was just under the impression that his past was dead and gone. Like my dad.

Who it turns out, his ex-late-wife killed. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

A prior body count for any one of my guys, I can handle, sexual or otherwise, in Gavin’s case. But this?

It’s different when you meet one of your lover’s exes, especially when they happen to be a returned-from-the-dead, mercenary team member, hit-person, and the assassin hired to kill your family who coincidentally decided to shoot you.

I have no idea how anyone is supposed to process it.

And I am kicking myself for not asking her why the hell she decided I was a viable target.

But the one thing it absolutely does is track with my zany luck and life. Less zany, more pure insanity.

One of these days, I’ll stop being surprised by surprises. Like a bad B-movie, just waiting for the twist.

Her admission that her predecessor and she eliminated other members of the Sinful has me hankering for another round of questioning, but I know it’s a bad idea. At least anytime soon.

My brain cannot take any more info-splosions.

Taking several deep breaths to clear my head, I wander around the small house, letting my eyes track over the sparse furniture, the lack of decor. It still looks lived in, cozy in a minimalist sort of way.

The fact that the person who lived here was my father…

A man I barely knew, and I clearly didn’t know anything real about him.

The only memories I have are vague. Trips to the park. Ice cream. Mom only ever painted him as a hero, but even her stories were carefully curated and only shared when Marco was far, far out of earshot.

Comparatively, the few stories Gavin has shared about their lives paint him in a specific way, too. A hero as well, but iconic. Larger than life. Scary.

Funny how Gavin resembles that statement so much himself, though he’d never admit it.

Reaching the wooden dinette at the back of the room, I flip one photo up, my breath catching as I see my mother, so much younger than ever I remember her, smiling. Damon is there too, laughing as he points at something off camera.

Another frame is empty, another smashed in the front, the picture so crumpled I can barely make it out. The last one gives me pause. For a second, I can’t interpret what I’m seeing.

It’s the three of us.

Mom. Dad. Me.

Standing in front of… this house.

The familiar feeling must be because I’ve been here before, but no visual memory surfaces, not even an echo. Then again, so many memories of my early years have blurred behind the veil of living through the Marco Vice years.

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