Page 118 of His Pretty Little Duet

Does he give a shit?

Nah. Not him. Not Max.

As feelings crest, my throat tightens to restrict them, so I bark, "Fuck off," needing him gone before they overcome me.

Max's brow furrows, but he leaves, and I exhale hard with relief and loneliness?—

I face the ceramic bowl again, struggling to remove the memory of the girl as my blood blotches the basin in evidence.

"You're so handsome. You look just like my father.” My mother's voice startles me, and I look up to see her standing behind me in the reflection of the mirror. "I thought your brother was bothering you. I should have known you would handle him yourself."

Dammit.

She moves towards me, her lips forming a straight line across her flawless face as she assesses me.

She sees me, sees the regret. I can't hide it as it crawls inside my eyes, finding a home.

Don't feel!

Our matching blue eyes meet, mine instantly stinging with the onset of tears.

Maybe she'll let me…

Maybeshe'llunderstan?—

"Don't!" she states but recovers quickly, schooling her disdain for my sensibilities and smiling tightly. "Butchers don't cry, Clay. We have nothing to cry about. Nothing is worthy of our tears."

She grabs a cloth, and I clench my jaw until my teeth ache. It's a pleasant sensation. It overthrows the need to burst withcommon sadness for the girl. And, pathetically, self-indulgently, for the eighteen-year-old boy within me who wanted to shake that girl back to life and protect her from her own past, her own knowledge, from being dragged into the dirtiest, coldest corners of this world.

Like some kind of hero.

But I'm not that.

I'm the villain.

I stand frozen as my mum cleans the gash on my collarbone. It seems so motherly—It confuses me.

But her expression, if described in words, would still be meticulous. Elegant. Smooth. "What you did today was only the start," she says, and I listen to her. I always listen. "You are not like everyone else. You are better. One day, it will be your job to weed out betrayals. To finalise loose ends. To make the tough calls.”

I wish I knew my mother better.

I don't. Watching her work on my wound, I lose focus on her hand. Blood seeps into the sponge. The pink water snaking down her fingers taints her perfect white skin.

My temples flare. I don't like the marks on her. Protective over her, I snatch her slender wrist when I see the crimson streams draw lines across her flesh.

She stills with my hand cuffing her. "You don't want my help then?" she asks gently. "Good boy. That's very good, Clay. You're so strong."

My heart burns for reasons I don't understand.That is strength, Clay.I am strong.I didn't want to see blood on her while she wanted me to be strong; whatever brought her in here in the first place, I can't say.

I'm alone in this.

That is what strength looks like.

A leader is always alone.

I stare at her blue eyes and delicate features, confused as to what she wants me to do. She is standing closer than I remember her ever standing, and my body twitches with discomfort. Wanting to recoil. Push her away. Wanting to wrap my arms around her?—

Would she let me if I tried?

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