Page 66 of Myla: The Hawthornes

“What?” she asked, her eyebrows drawing together in shock.

“Cian, open the door,” Bas called, pounding on the door.

“He fucked up, My.” I shook my head as I took a step away from her. “He fucked up so bad. None of ’em are safe. Goddamn it.”

My fist hit the wall with a deep thump, not even denting whatever the hell they’d used.

“Shit, Cian,” Myla blurted, reaching for me. “Did you just break your freaking hand?”

“Motherfucker, open this door now,” Titus ordered, slamming against it.

“We’re fine,” Myla called back. “Get away from the door!”

“It’s not broken,” I muttered, shaking out my hand. I needed to pace. I needed to move. But there was no room in that bathroom, and the moment I stepped outside, there was going to be a whole group of people outside wanting me to explain what the fuck was going on. I didn’t want to see them. I didn’t want to be where I was. I wanted to be far the fuck away from there, clueless to how the most important father figure I’d ever known had fucked over his family so spectacularly.

“Baby, stop,” Myla said, catching me as I turned toward the mirror. “Stop. Look at me.”

Every muscle in my body was tight as I let her pull me closer. She was the only reason I hadn’t already tore the room to pieces.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her eyes on mine. “What happened?”

I just shook my head.

“How can I help you?” she murmured. The question was so sincere that my throat got tight again.

Wrapping my arms around her shoulders, I ignored the pounding on the door as I stuffed my face into her neck. My body was vibrating with rage and fear and fucking sadness, but the scent of Myla’s soap felt like a cool shower on the hottest day of summer. Shocking, but fuck if it wasn’t a welcome reprieve.

“Wanker, you don’t open this door, I’m coming in there.” Myla’s dad said, his voice eerily calm. “I gotta break it down and you’re gonna wish your mama swallowed before I’m through with you.”

“Gross,” Myla hissed, pulling away a little. “He’ll do it, Cian. You better open it.”

I let my arms fall from her shoulders and nodded, turning away as she moved toward the door. I was gripping the sides of the sink with both hands, my knuckles white, when she swung the door open.

“Dramatic much?” Myla’s mom bitched. “Jesus, Tommy. You can see they’re fine. Now can you leave them alone?”

“Not happenin’,” Tommy replied.

“She’s fine,” Heather said in exasperation.

“He ain’t,” Tommy shot back.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Heather muttered. “You know he’d never hurt her.”

“Not on purpose.”

“I’m fine,” Myla snapped. “What do you need?”

“Go with your mother,” Tommy ordered.

“Yeah, that’s not fucking happening.”

“Wanker,” Tommy said, ignoring his daughter. “Need a word.”

I hated that fucking name, but I knew why he used it. I’d known why Will was using it, too, when normally they only pulled it out when they were giving me shit. It was a reminder of who I was, who they were, and the hierarchy that I’d pledged my life to.

Myla might get away with doing whatever the fuck she wanted—but I wouldn’t.

“Go with your mom, My,” I ordered. “Be out in a minute.”

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