Page 67 of His Innocent Muse

Mayhem mumbles something about not knowing he was the new Eustice, and while everyone ignores him, Ghost sneers at Murder. “She doesn’t have to relive this.”

“She’s gonna know better than any of us,” Murder bites. “Roman’s not stupid enough to approach her near the cameras.”

“One could argue Roman’s not stupid enough to go after Ghost’s chiclet,” Mayhem says, pushing a buttered everything bagel aside like it personally offends him. “However, they would be wrong. Exhibit A, her face.”

I pull the everything bagel towards me, too, and Mayhem whacks the back of my hand with the plastic knife. “You little vulture.”

I bite back a giggle, hoarding my food between Ghost and I. Mayhem huffs and yanks another one near him, scowling as he splits it open. I nudge the everything bagel toward Ghost, and though he squeezes my leg gratefully, he doesn’t touch it.

Hmmph. That won’t work.

I take it back and pluck it into tiny pieces, shoving one under his drumming fingers. His glare stays focused on Murder, but when he glances at me, finding me licking the cheese and crumbs off my wrist, he absently puts it in his mouth.

He’s really a whole bunny. Seeking me when he’s stressed and mimicking my actions has got to be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

“You can talk to me, Lucy,” Murder urges, surprisingly gentle.

For some reason, it just pisses me off he’s not listening to his brother, and I’m sure my answering death glare is enough to pick that up.

“If Ghost doesn’t want me to talk to you, then I’m not going to,” I say, watching Ghost out of the corner of my eye. He anxiously rips a piece of bread apart with his teeth, light eyes unfocused on the center of the table.

I cover the hand he placed on my lap with my own and give him a squeeze, kissing his shoulder and staring him down until his eyes find mine. He watches my chest expand with a breath, and he exhales along with me.

“Damn, they’re in tune,” Mayhem grunts, waggling his brows at Murder. “Bet she gets her brand in the next twenty-four hours.”

Murder snatches the new bagel, glowering deeply. “Would you shut up?”

“Please go fuck something,” Mayhem says, sticking the knife in his mouth and biting down on it. “Anything. A corpse. An alligator. Your hand. I don’t care. But for the sake of all fucks, you are a nightmare to be around.”

Through their bantering, Ghost keeps his eyes on mine. Deep, steadying breaths, his heart racing in his ears, while he clings to me like a ship to its anchor.

It’s crazy to think I could be so important. So grounding. But I can’t deny the desperation in his eyes, his touch, his kiss. He’s no more sure I’m real now than he was when he ran down those stairs.

I’m tempted to straddle his cock for the remainder of this conversation. Or return to my spot on the floor and hold him in my mouth. He’s been far more confident in those brief flashes.

I let my hand drag up his thigh and settle between his legs. Muscles twitch under my attention, his eyes darkening in hunger, but I don’t push, merely leaving my hand over him.

“Fine,” Ghost grunts suddenly, while I sneak him another chunk of his breakfast, this time guiding him by taking a bite of my own. “Go ahead, Lucy.”

“I, um,” I swallow past my nerves while he chomps that poor bagel chunk like it insulted his mother. Didn’t think he’d actually wanna hear. “What, Murder?”

Murder stops sniping at Mayhem, giving his attention back to me. He’s completely oblivious to where my hands are, and something about that is a powerful thing. “What happened, start to finish, exactly? No detail is too small.”

“Um.” I swallow, eyeing Ghost again. He’s much easier to look at, so I turn to him. “I took the laundry downstairs, a-and Roman came over to the front. He was talking about one of the paintings—he thought a Monet was a Van Gogh, and I said it was a Monet, and then he said he wished it was a Degas—oof.”

Ghost’s grip is past the point of pleasant pain, now, and I squirm under his hand. His eyes snap down to my lap and he forces his grip free, clenching his fist instead.

“Wh-What?”

“Nothing,” he says, “go on.”

“Is that bad?” I ask, panic lancing my chest. “Did I tell him something bad?”

None of them speak for a long moment, looking over my head at each other in a silent conversation I’d give anything to be a part of, and my stomach tangles itself in agonizing knots.

What did Ido?

20

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