Page 26 of Mischievous Lies

“How do you know what to do?” I ask. My voice comes out in a rasp, and I can tell the sound of it grates on him. For such a big guy, he looks so small right now. I’m not yet ready to ask him what state he found me in. I’m too scared of the answer.

“My mother was a drug addict. The memories I remember most are of putting her to bed and making sure she didn’t choke on her own vomit in her sleep. Cleaning her up became second nature,” he says matter-of-factly.

My heart breaks as I imagine Hawke as a child. It’s so strange to think of him as anything but this giant. I’d heard they’d lived on the streets before Anya adopted them, and although I’ve been tempted to dive into Ford’s and his history, I’ve always refrained from doing so. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me himself.

“What happened to her?” I ask. I can’t even imagine living in a home like that. I almost feel guilty for having the parents and upbringing I did.

He looks at me then as if realizing I’m curious about him. He silently requests my other hand. I give it to him, and he cleans it just as gently as he did the first one. “You don’t have to ever be shy to ask me questions, Ivy. I’m an open book,” he says as he leans over to put the cloth in the water and run it over my skin. “She overdosed when we were twelve. We didn’t have any otherfamily to go to, and we have no idea who the fuck our dad is, so Ford and I lived on the streets.

“It was always just us. I always felt like I had to protect him, you know. He’s smarter and can hold his own, but I was always bigger than him. I mean, I had to be all brawn if he was the brains.” The last bit is said in a joking manner, but it hurts to hear. I’ve never once thought of Hawke as stupid. An impulsive, open book, yes. But never stupid.

“We lived on the streets until we broke into Anya and River’s home when we were fifteen.” He smirks at the memory. “Anya put a gun to both of our heads when they found us, and it was River who wanted to give us a second chance. I don’t know why, but he saw something in us. I think he also pitied us, but as I came to know them better, I learned that pity isn’t exactly something our mother feels.”

I’ve met Anya Ivanov plenty of times, and that woman is terrifying.

He then looks up as if recalling another memory. “Ford and I also learned how to help each other out when Anya introduced us to micro poisoning to build our tolerance. She said it’d come in handy, but I thought she was paranoid. Turns out, it’s exactly what saved Ford’s life when?—”

His circles on my arm come to a stop abruptly, and I can see the moment he recedes back into himself.

“What happened that day?” I ask quietly. Not even Billie gave me details, and I didn’t want to push her too much about it. I know she was poisoned. Was this what it felt like for her when she woke? I inwardly curl into myself, the terror rising at the thought of what might’ve happened during the time I can’t remember.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, immediately closing up despite just telling me I can ask him anything. A tangible weight fills the room. My curious mind wants to push himfurther, but the exhaustion from last night and the warmth of the water are quickly sapping everything out of me.

“How did you know where to find me?” I ask. I want to ask what state I was in and what happened, but those questions just won’t leave my lips. He looks at me then. Despite being naked, his gaze has not once wavered from mine.

He pulls out his phone and shows me the IG story Makayla posted. I completely forgot about that. I don’t want to inquire about Hawke’s motivations for showing up at the party because, frankly, I’m just grateful he did. When I needed someone the most, he was there. Even when I didn’t ask him to be, he just was, like he is now.

“I didn’t post that, for what it’s worth,” I tell him.

“Oh, I know. But I’m grateful your shitty friend did,” he says, that lethal edge creeping into his voice.

“You can’t kill her, Hawke,” I say, rolling my head to the side.

“I don’t kill women,” he snaps, and it’s so startling that we just stare at one another.

“I’m sorry. I—” He cuts himself off abruptly.

“I know you wouldn’t. It’s okay. I’m sorry for saying that.” I’m certain he wants to burn the world alive right now, and it offers me a sense of safety to know that someone cares about what happens to me. I know people care. I just… It feels different with him.

I curl my knees into my stomach as he looks over me with concern. “Are you feeling sick again?” he asks.

I shake my head, exhaustion grabbing at me again. The pounding in my head begins to take over again. I close my eyes and say, “Hawke, please don’t tell any of my friends or family about this. I just want to work it out on my own first.”

I’m surprised when he takes my hand in his. I open my eyes again and look at him. “Nothing happened to you. I found you at the party an hour after the picture was posted.”

Relief washes through me. Although he can’t guarantee nothing happened to me, knowing he found me so quickly makes me feel a little better. “Thank you for coming for me,” I whisper as I sleepily close my eyes again. “And I’m sorry about your bed. I should go home,” I add absently, my mind slowly being pulled under a haze.

“You should sleep. Don’t worry. I’ll look after you,” he promises.

I feel him lifting me out of the bath and wrapping me in a towel. I come in and out of coherence as he puts one of his shirts over my head and helps guide my arms through the sleeves.

I can keep my eyes open long enough to realize he’s changed the sheets and blanket on his bed before he places me down gently and tucks me in. This Hawke is different. Maybe it’s all just a dream. Or a nightmare.

“Go to sleep,” he coos. But I don’t need his encouragement as the darkness takes over.

CHAPTER 17

Hawke

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