Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(17)

She sat there, with the Cowardly Lion, tearing the cake apart, stuffing themselves full of it, leaving none for anyone else.

“Do you think Daddy wanted some?” she asked, crumbs covering her.

“No,” he replied. “He doesn’t like sweet things... not even his women, especially your mother.”

He laughed at his own joke, but she just made a face at him as she tossed her fork down. Sometimes he could be nice, but other times he said mean things the little girl didn’t like.

“Ah, don’t look at me that way,” he said, putting his hand on her face and playfully pushing her. “I only speak the truth.”

“Why are you here?” she asked, snatching his hand away. “You’re always here.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because he’s my daddy. He makes me be here.”

“Yeah, well, he’s my brother,” he said. “And he kind of makes me, too.”

The Cowardly Lion started collecting his things as she gasped. “Does that mean you’re my family?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said, shoving his money in his pocket before handing her the red 5000 bill. “Happy birthday, sweet Sasha… although, just between us, your birthday was months ago. I just told him it was today so you could make another wish.”

He strolled out, leaving her there, clutching the money and utterly confused, covered in cake.





Chapter Five





Sasha would’ve liked chocolate chips in her pancakes.

That’s what I’m thinking, as I sit at the kitchen table beside Lorenzo, slowly chewing a small bite. I’ve never made pancakes from scratch. Hell, I’ve never made anything from scratch. I wish I would’ve at least tried before, though.

Sasha would’ve eaten them every morning, if she could’ve, and I know, without a doubt, she would love Lorenzo’s pancakes.

I wonder if Kassian has made them for her.

I wonder what Kassian is making her.

I wonder if Kassian is even feeding her.

All day, every day, it’s in the back of my mind.

Is she eating?

Is she sleeping?

Is she breathing?

Will we make it through this?

Will I ever see her again?

Will she still remember me?

I get lost in my head, drowning in those thoughts, forcing down bites, so consumed by these torturous unanswered questions that I almost don’t hear the words spoken from across the table.

“I’m moving out.”

Blinking a few times, pulling myself out of my stupor, I glance over at Leo and wonder if I’m imagining things, because whoa...

Leo stares down at his plate, at his untouched breakfast. He looks nervous.

“What did you just say?” Lorenzo asks, his tone clipped.

“I’m moving out,” Leo says again.

“The hell you are,” Lorenzo says, dropping his fork with a clang. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“I am,” Leo says. “Mel and I, we’re going to get a place together. Our own place. We’ve been talking about it for a while, and well, I think it’s time.”

“You think it’s time, do you?”

“Yes.”

“And how are you going to do that, huh? How are you going to afford that?”

“I’ve got my job,” Leo says. “I can pick up extra shifts, if I need to, but I’ve got some money saved up. And Mel, she’s about to graduate, so she’ll be getting a job soon, which means there’s no reason we can’t—”

Before Leo can finish, Lorenzo slams his hands against the table, the loud bang echoing through the kitchen, rattling plates and knocking drinks over. “There are plenty of reasons why you can’t. Do you need me to fucking name them for you, Leonardo?”

A strained, painful silence swells through the room. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. Hell, I don’t know if anyone is even breathing. Lorenzo glares across the table at his little brother... a brother whose name he just used. I’ve never heard him do that before. The sound of it is downright chilling.

I shiver.

“I should go,” Melody whispers, rubbing Leo’s arm as she stands up from the chair beside him. “I’ll let you guys talk.”

“We should all probably do that,” Seven says from where he lurks across the room. “Morgan?”

I glance at him when he says my name, watching as he walks out of the kitchen, realizing he’s pretty much telling me to get my ass up and leave, too. My gaze flickers around the room, landing on Lorenzo, who looks seconds away from flipping the table over. Shit.

I get up without a word and walk out of the kitchen, barely making it into the hallway when chaos erupts. I head toward the library, where Seven stands in the doorway, looking worried as he stares back at the kitchen.

“What are the odds that ends well?” I ask.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On who you want it to end well for.”

I think about that for a moment, as Lorenzo’s furious voice echoes out from the kitchen, followed by Leo shouting right back.

“What are the odds it ends well for anyone?”

“Not very good,” Seven admits, turning to me. “I should head home. Take care, Morgan.”