Page 139 of His Pretty Little Duet

I don’t miss her.

She taps the book cover with her slender index finger, her mauve-coloured nail making a gentle tapping sound against the hide. "Well, Mary is a spoilt little orphan who neededmoremagic and fewer rules, more ridiculous things in her neat un-fantastical life."

I raise an eyebrow at her. "You think I'm like Mary?"

"Well, your stories have similarities. Mary was very attention deprived, but…No.I don't think you're like Mary. I thinkIam," she confirms, and I frown, not seeing the comparison between the bratty girl fromThe Secret Gardenand the bewitching creature that is Aurora Butcher.

"You're kidding, right? You're—" I laugh dubiously, lost for more words. "Perfect."

Smooth.

"I'm spoilt," she says, allowing my gushing statement about herperfectionto go unexplored.

Thank fuck.

She continues. "I'm never alone. Wanting for nothing. But I'm entirelyunmagical."

"Your life ismagical."

"No, sweet Fawn. It'sprivileged.I don't remember the last time I looked at the moon. And I've certainly never believed itto have powers. The onlypowerI know is the one wielded by money and demanded with a loaded gun."

"What about your mum?"

"My father had her leave the estate when I was young. They remained legally married, of course, until the day she died. You don't divorce inCosa Nostra; a wife knows too much to be set free entirely. But me and my sisters? Well, he owned us, you see. We would stay here and be raised to be the perfect daughters so he could one day use us like chattel."

I'll never marry Clay Butcher.

The thought comes to me unbidden, like a whisper of unwanted truth. My shoulders sink. When Luca spoke of being therightwoman for him, somewhere in my hopeful mind, I imagined we might be a traditional couple one day.

I gaze at Aurora, then at her provocative wedding ring, unable to shove down the urge to wince. I can't imagine a better-suited creature for Clay than her. And the truth is, I like hersomuch… but… her statement is just so…definitive.

I nibble my bottom lip as she studies my response to her words with soft contemplation. "Clay and I are both locked into this arrangement, Fawn," she finally says. "Don't let it change the way you experience his affections. See it for the arbitrary condition it is. Would you rather wear his ring around your finger every day or his body around yours each night?"

The click of the front door opening and then closing interrupts the intimacy of our conversation.

She glances back to see who appears through the hallway, although we both know it must be Clay as the hour is late and only one strong rap is heading towards us. My heart races in anticipation of seeing him.

Would you rather wear his ring around your finger every day or his body around yours each night?Her words sailthrough my mind, and I gaze once again at the oddly-animated-inanimate object on her finger.

Shut up, ring.

Had I been able to answer her in our private moment, I would have said, "His body each night."

Of course.

Clay enters the room and with him comes a thick, ominous current. Chills rush straight to the depth of my soul. I hold my breath but can't tear my gaze away from the gruesome image; under his right eye, blood has started to harden in an angry gash. Sprayed across his white dress shirt are frenzied red stains. The kind that came about through brutality, beaten from the source, hitting the material under immense pressure.

His hand grasps a small plastic animal carrier, the cage part covered in a pink cloth. I don't know what to do. Or say. There is something wild about the sight of him.

Contradictory, too.

Clay's eyes shift emotionlessly from me to Aurora and back again, holding mine for a beat. I don't understand his expression right now.

He lifts the carrier and places it on the table, before unlatching the door and reaching inside to reveal an all-white kitten wriggling in his big, bruised hand.

My eyes widen. I jump to my feet, intent on getting to him, wrapping my arms around his neck and holding him until the callousness in his gaze melts in my love. A thank you. Or support. Anything to break this moment when my man and everything arrives late covered in bloody events but brings me a white kitten to soften the blow.

As I move towards him, he halts me with the subtle lift of his finger. My gaze instantly snagged on the raw skin and blood marring angry-looking knuckles.

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