Page 63 of Butterfly

I kiss her temple. “Did he do more than hit you?” I measure every word, not wanting to trigger her further.

“No.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “He was…he couldn’t do it. The murderer he’d chased shot him in the groin, and that…did it.”

Good.

“He wasn’t interested in me in that way,” she says, burying her face in my chest.

I hold her, processing my own anger about this. I don’t want to push her and ask her about her back. The bastard must have hit her there, and now her skin is sensitive. I can give her the space she needs. I don’t release her until her shivers calm down.

Dart slips his big head between the two seats and licks Sienna’s cheek, pushing my arm up in the process and making her laugh. Big, slobbering lashes of his tongue send drool everywhere. She laughs harder as he runs his tongue over her hair, making a mess.

Hearing her laugh lifts a weight from my chest. She must have a tonne of issues, but at least we talked, and she’s relaxing. I kiss the top of her head and slowly return to my seat before a car hits us.

“I’m glad we talked.” I squeeze her hand and rub her knuckles. “Best Christmas gift ever.”

Her nod is short and unconvincing. A light tremor still lingers in her body. She pulls up her legs and hugs them, resting her forehead on her knees.

“Sienna.” I touch her shoulder. “Do you need me to stop again?”

“No, I’m fine. I need a moment.”

I’d give her all the bloody time she needs, but I’m not fooled. She isn’t fine. Now I get why Tyler overreacts. We drive in silence as she remains in that odd position. Shit, if I have to brake hard, she’ll get hurt. I’ll take extra care then. When we leave the motorway, the road turns narrow and steep. Sienna releases her legs, her cheeks rosy again.

“Better?” I ask, caressing her hand.

“Better.” She holds my hand back.

I beam when my mum’s house comes into view after a curve. The two-storey red-brick house holds all the charm of a British country home, but with the snow and the Christmas lights, the view is straight out of a fairy tale.

“So pretty.” Sienna tilts her head and gazes around. “Huge garden.”

“Mum loves it. She spends all summer taking care of her veggies, flowers, and plants.” I can’t stop smiling when I park the car and climb out.

Sienna comes out inch by inch, her cheeks flushing and paling at the same time. She staggers on the icy ground, and I steady her with an arm around her waist.

“Don’t be nervous.” I take her hand and lead her towards the front door where a large green and red wreath hangs with a few golden bells. I don’t have to knock on the door before it swings inward, and my mum appears on the threshold. Her blue polo neck is covered by a red and gold apron dusted with flour. She smiles, her eyes wrinkling at the corners.

“Alex.” When she hugs me, the scent of butter and her flowery perfume fill my senses.

A knot tightens in my throat as I hug her back, feeling her strong body. “Mum.”

“You must be Sienna.” She stretches out a hand to Sienna. “I’m so glad to have you here with us. The more the merrier.”

With a plastic smile, Sienna shakes my mum’s hand. “Thank you for having me, Mrs Knightley.”

“Call me Bethany.” Mum hugs Sienna as well, patting her shoulder, but Dart gets in the way with his usual, over-the-top enthusiasm. Barks and golden hairs fill the air. “Well, come in.” She strokes Dart’s head while hooking an arm with Sienna’s.

Memories assault me when I step into the hallway. A small table in a corner hides the spot Charles and I destroyed when we played cricket in the corridor. One of our bats—I’m sure it was Charles’s—hit the wall and made a hole in it. My dad insisted on repairing the damage, but the result wasn’t great. The dent was still visible, and the paint kept flaking. Mum hated it. Hence the table.

And the still-life watercolour painting hanging from the wall is my dad’s creation. Hell, it looks horrible, like a soggy fruit salad left out in the sun for too long. But Mum wants it there, and no one ever had the courage to tell Dad the thing was ugly enough to crack mirrors and scare the devil.

I swallow past the lump in my throat as I step into the sitting room. In this exact spot, I said goodbye to my dad and hugged him for the last time. Not that I knew that. If I’d known that, our conversation would have been different.

Silence drops. Mum and Sienna are watching me with matching curious expressions. I clear my throat and shove my hands into my pockets.

Mum smooths her apron. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Twenty

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