Page 79 of Sweetheart: Part One

Drake reached out, though, tips of his fingers halting just before my cheek as if he weren’t sure. I shifted forward before I could stop myself, leaning into that touch.

“I’ve got it now, okay? I know Love didn’t sign it forme, but I need…” I swallowed, fingers lacing into his. “Can you just pretend, for me? I just need someone here not to hate me.”

“Fuck, Vex.” He shut his eyes, tugging me into a hug, and I clutched him. “There’s a selfish part of me that’s never been more happy,” he whispered. “But it doesn’t change how wrong this is.”

My heart settled. I needed to hear those words.

From just one of them.

It was enough.

Drake was looking around. “I’m staying with you today.”

“You should get some sleep.” I nodded toward my bed. He looked like hell. “I’ll just be here unpacking,” I said. It was time, at last, to empty my suitcase properly.

“I can help.”

But I was already tugging him toward the bed. “I can unpack myself.”

He didn’t put up a fight, and I wondered how much of the night he’d stayed up. To stop a signature that, by the looks of it, had been there the whole time.

He was out in moments, messy raven hair brushing his cheeks as he clutched one of my pillows in his arms. I shifted the duvet over him properly, unable to rip my gaze away as I held onto this moment.

I circled the bed, gathering pillows, then tucking one at his back and the other on the far side of his head in case he rolled over. The bed had been a mess from a restless night, and he deserved better. Then I re-adjusted the duvet again, so it was closer.

With each action it was like a warm breeze brushed my chest, loosening drug-smothered instincts.

Myalpha.

He was mine. The only one who wanted me. The only one who liked me, with purple bruises visible on his cheek, neck, and fists. Ones he’d received fighting for me.

I wanted to burrow into the little cave of blankets I’d made and sink into his arms. To pretend, for a moment, that it was all I needed for everything to be okay.

I didn’t, because it wasn’t.

Still, I had so far to go.

I put my earbuds in, but couldn’t find a song I wanted to listen to, so I worked in numb silence, unpacking my suitcase for the first time.

My instincts weren’t just muted, Alastor had explicitly told me to avoid nesting in case it drew suspicion. But it was still cathartic to finally unpack properly and find homes for all the clothing I’d brought. That, and Drake’s blackcurrant wine filled the space, cooling my reeling nerves.

I missed my stuff. I’d bargained for very few things, but my outfits were one of them. They weren’t from my home, though; Alastor had given me his phone and told me to put what I wanted into a cart. I picked out what looked familiar, but it didn’t make up for my clothes, with all the right prints and inscriptions that I’d built over years.

I was half way unpacked when I found the right lyrics. It wasn’t enough to want to put the song on, but I found a sliver of peace as I sung the words to my own melody, quiet as they were.

I was focused completely, folding clothing into another pile, finding the right note as I took the tune in a different direction. The result was that I jumped violently when I heard the door creak open.

Cutting off my song, I spun, t-shirt clutched in my fist and hoping for—well, I didn’t know who I’d rather it was.

Love, maybe?

He’d given me the signature, so he wasn’t liable to be angry today.

It was Rook, though, once more stepping in as if it was his room, eyes sweeping the space until he halted on Drake, and then found me. He didn’t look pissed, not like I was expecting. Cocky might be the right word for it as he pushed the door shut and crossed toward me, bringing with him that infuriatingly charming scent of caramel brandy.

I was on my feet in a second, shirt still clutched in my fist, but he just flung himself down on the couch beside my suitcase. He lazily threw his feet up on the arm rest, a picture of arrogance: messy dark hair, wearing a black bomber jacket with rolled up sleeves, and matching joggers.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said. I could see a nasty bruise on his face. He’d fought Drake last night, I knew that.

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