Page 77 of Caveman (Wild Men 1)

I shrug. “Octavia.”

Evan nods, eyes narrowed as if doing complicated mental calculations. “Of course, Octavia. She was his favorite target.”

“Was?” I latch onto that word.

“Yeah. At school. Now he lost his favorite toy, and apparently thought to try it with you.” He tsks. “He picked the wrong person to annoy, it seems.”

Does it? Sure, I can deck him easily, but is it enough? The thought of him torturing Octavia sends my pulse roaring in my ears. Anger boils in my chest.

That stupid motherfucker.

“Anyway,” Evan goes on blithely, returning to his engine. “I bet you got the message home with that punch. Or maybe it was because his old man was listening in? You didn’t get another message since

then, did you?”

I frown. Well, I did. There was that one message when I got back home yesterday, but Ross must have stuck it there earlier, before he came back here, to the workshop.

So does this mean it’s over? I could sure do with a respite. With Cole’s stunt this morning, and Octavia last night…

Hell. Octavia.

Soon I’ll have to drive back home. She’ll want to talk, probably just to tell me that she won’t be coming back. She’ll also want an explanation for last night, and quite frankly, I don’t know if I have one.

I wanted her, that’s for damn sure.

Have wanted her all along. Still want her. So fucking bad I can feel it in my bones.

But last night I freaked out and acted like the asshole I am.

Because I want more than that. Having her spread underneath me isn’t enough. I freaked out because I want her beside me, I want her in my house, with my kids.

Christ, I’m fucked either way. I thought I had more control over myself, but when it comes to her, I have none.

So what more is there to talk about?

The porch light is on when I park in front of the house. The windows are lit from inside, a golden, warm glow. It looks like… a home.

I sit in my truck and stare, fighting the tug in my chest, the fucking burn in my eyes. This… not the house, not the windows but this feeling reminds me of the past. Of how I used to feel.

A feeling I forgot.

So of course I fight it. The warm feeling, the relief and wonder, the goddamn memories of a time when I used to be happy. I slam my fist on the wheel, smash my elbow into the truck door. Welcome the pain.

This isn’t real. The lights, the warmth, the feelings. This isn’t my home, I lost that years ago. Sure, my kids are in that house, but not my wife, not my girl. And she’s leaving, anyway.

Yeah, this is reality.

Jumping out of my truck, slamming the door shut, I head down the path, climb the porch steps and take a second to rejoice at the lack of knives stuck to the front door.

Then I take a deep breath and open.

The smell of something mouthwatering hits me instantly, that of a cake fresh from the oven. Vanilla, sugar, butter.

Goddammit, the illusion runs deep. Maybe I’m still asleep—only in my dreams I never see the good times. No, I always revisit the bad and ugly, and see all the ways I have and could have failed my family.

My stomach growls like an angry bear, and how’s that for a greeting?

Octavia is standing in the middle of the living room, looking right at me, a faint smile on her face.

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