Oscar laughs at me, and both Hael and I jump. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard him let out anything more raucous than a gentle, mocking chuckle.

“You want me to confess my undying love?” Oscar asks, coming over to the counter and splaying his long fingers atop it. I stare at them and look up at him, at that sharp and perfect face, the face of an aristocrat. He might be poor now, but there must be some blue, blue blood in his veins. He looks it.

“That would be nice, yes, thank you,” I tell him, leaning back on the stool and groaning. I cross my arms over my chest and fucking wait. Our gazes lock, energy cracks between us, a rend in the universe made of wills and bullshit. “I’m waiting.”

“Then you are to wait, though waiting so be hell,” Oscar purrs, looking over the top rim of his glasses at me. He’s quoting Shakespeare again, some sonnet with a number instead of a name, I think. I do actually pay attention in some of my classes, thank you very much.

“Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well,” I retort, finishing the last line of the poem. He just stares at me then, this wicked smile frozen on his face. I’ve surprised him, and he hates it. “What? Can’t handle someone playing at your level?” I quip, but then the sliding door opens, and Oscar lifts his attention from me, looking over my shoulder at Victor and Aaron as they come in.

Swear to god, when I turn, it’s in slow motion.

“Bernie,” Aaron breathes, my name a desperate sizzling promise, and I find myself scrambling out of my chair and cursing. I throw myself into his arms and he grunts. He’s wearing a cast on his right hand, a black medical boot—basically like a cast made of hard plastic and Velcro straps—on his leg. Broken fibula or … something. “Oh, baby,” he purrs, nuzzling his head against mine. “Fuck.”

We hold each other like two people who know they’re running out of chances to make things work, who realize that tomorrow is not promised to anyone. My fingertips dig into his back, and he holds me so hard that I can’t breathe.

“Jesus Christ,” Victor says with a long sigh, storming past us. This is going to take some getting used to, showing them both how I feel without pissing the other off. Right now, though, Vic has to take a back seat. He just has to. I thought Aaron might be lost forever.

“She didn’t touch you, did she?” I ask as he lays the fingers of his left hand on my cheek, staring down into my eyes with his green-gold ones, like spring with bits of fall flecked through. Even though it’s winter in reality, I smell sandalwood and rose when I close my eyes.

“She tried,” he says, which reminds me that he also said that last night. “She couldn’t get me hard.” I open my eyes just as he grins at me. It’s not a pretty smile though; it’s a tired, wary one. “I wouldn’t get it up.”

“Who knew your impotence would come in handy someday?” Hael jokes, but I feel for Aaron. He’s gotten to experience something that most men don’t understand: the fear of carnal torture. I put my hands on his chest and lean into him.

“I can’t fucking believe her,” I whisper, because rape is next-level fucked-up. Murder has all sorts of possible justifications, but rape? I’ve got nothing. “I guess I should be grateful for her weird obsession or you might already be dead.”

“Ophelia was going to use him against us,” Victor says, playing with a shotgun. I see that there truly is no rest for the motherfucking wicked. He lifts his obsidian eyes to mine. His ebon eyes. Ebon, ebon, ebon. Take that, Mr. Darkwood, you fuck-nut, it really is a word. “We’re lucky she’s running out of money; she’s a snake.” Vic loads two shells in and pushes the barrel back into place. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Like I was hit with a Mack truck,” I say, looking back at Callum as he slips in the front door. “Or one of Cal’s bats.” He smiles at me and then very carefully lowers his hood. It’s a purposeful movement, one that draws my eyes along with it.

“Same difference,” he whispers, and then he laughs. It’s a very pretty laugh, too. Like a tease. Like, Cal could’ve been different if his life had been different. Being an asshole isn’t stamped into his DNA the way it is with Victor. “Good thing Kali’s an idiot.” He nods his head in Victor’s direction. “The cop just drove by again.”

Vic nods, like he already knows what’s going on.

“Not Sara?” I groan, but Vic gives me a look that tells me all I need to know. “Motherfucker.” I’m supposed to stop by her house sometime soon. She might already know I was in the hospital; she might already know Kali is missing. Not good.

I sink into Aaron with a sigh, putting my forehead against his chest. He holds me with his one good arm, squeezing me tight. I should ask about his injuries; they seem pretty severe. Yet again, if we were at any other hospital than the one servicing Prescott, maybe we’d have gotten better care, maybe they would’ve kept us longer. In the southside, the ER does the bare minimum to keep you alive and then kicks your ass out on the street.

We’ll both probably have to follow up somewhere else.

I decide that I don’t have the energy to ask questions, so I just let myself melt into him for a second, falling back into our shared nostalgia. Memories of his hand in mine, memories of sitting at this table with a sandwich and a smile, memories of sappy texts sent in the middle of the night. I knew I shouldn’t have smoked that joint before coming downstairs. Sometimes pot does that to me, makes me crave the past.

I would never go back though because the sort of pain I’ve suffered … it can’t be recovered from twice. That’s why I think that, after we die, we’re reborn without any of our previous memories. It’d be too much, to keep living life and gathering up so much pain.

Today feels like an epilogue, like we should be resting and recovering, an in-between space to prepare for whatever life throws at us next. Unfortunately for Havoc, there’s never truly a day off.

“Ophelia’s shitty party is next Sunday,” Victor repeats, putting the shotgun on his shoulder. He’s wearing a tucked-in white t-shirt and black slacks with the faintest of pinstripes. He even has suspenders on. Makes him look like a fucking mobster from the twenties. “Find something to wear. That’s all I need from you this week.” He pauses and wets his lower lip, leaning in toward me and smelling like sweet musk. Motherfucker. “You are under strict orders to rest, so don’t get any ideas in that stubborn-ass head of yours.” He pauses and his full mouth twitches in amusement. “And don’t forget your spankings.”

“Shove off,” I growl at him, lifting my head to see Aaron frowning. Victor takes off for the master bedroom and Oscar follows him. Hael keeps making pancakes as Callum watches me and Aaron with a curious expression on his face.

“Do you want to tell us what happened?” Cal asks, and I’m guessing that Victor’s the only one that knows the whole truth thus far. Very slowly, Aaron shakes his head once. His eyes darken, and he exhales. “No worries at all.” Callum holds up his hands, palms out.

Aaron and I end up sitting at the table. Our chairs are side by side, but we’re facing each other instead. Hael brings us pancakes and then inserts himself into what’s shaping up to be a pretty intimate moment.