Addicted After All (Addicted #3)(132)

I find myself walking quickly towards him with my father, and I sense Lo, Connor, Rose, Sam and Poppy in tow.

If Lo didn’t have Moffy, he’d most likely run over to his brother, but we all end up surrounding Ryke around the same time. He’s hunched over with his hands braced on his thighs.

“Give me…a f*cking…minute.” He breathes heavily through his nose.

“You’re really pale,” Lo says, worry spreading across his face. “Was it that hard of a climb?”

Ryke shakes his head repeatedly. And then it hits me. He chugged two bottles of Ziff: disgusting, putrid, Blood Squall, Ziff.

The nausea surfaces in his features and he gags.

“Alright, let’s back up.” My father waves all of us to move away from Ryke. “Give him some room—”

He pukes, an avalanche of blue liquid.

All over Rose’s heels.

“Jesus Christ,” Lo curses.

Rose is horrified, and she immediately shuts her eyes. “This is not happening. This is not happening.” She inhales strongly, her collarbones protruding.

With his brows knotted in concern, Connor moves quickly, handing me Jane who begins to cry like a banshee.

“Connor!” Rose calls, permanently fixed to the grass, refusing to budge, open her eyes, and see the mess on her feet.

In seconds, Connor lifts Rose in his arms, cradling her while she tries to exhale normally. More than just destroying a good pair of heels, Rose’s OCD is kicking in. Connor’s lips brush her ear while he speaks fluid French, carrying her towards the nearest bathroom.

I’m sure my eyes are still hanging out of the sockets. I watch Ryke stumble again, but Daisy holds him by the waist from behind, keeping him upright. And this time, he vomits off to the side.

“Ryke, why are you sick?!” a reporter yells. Camera flashes go off like fireworks.

I jostle Jane in my arms while she cries for her mom and dad.

Sam tenses and says to my father, “We should move him away from the video cameras.”

“No, no.” My dad rests a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “His health comes first. Go find the medics. Get them over here as fast as possible.”

Sam nods once before he leaves with Poppy.

“Jane, shh,” I whisper. Where is her lion? Oh my God. She did not drop her lion in vomit. I search for a quick second but can’t find it anywhere.

Lo sidles next to me, keeping an eye on his brother who breathes shallowly. A Fizzle employee hands Ryke a water and he takes small sips.

“What a weird day,” Lo whispers.

“Yeah,” I nod in agreement, Jane still wailing in my ear. My dad apologized to me. I can’t say the words now, but I know I will later. It’s a phrase I didn’t ever expect to receive. Definitely not today of all days.

Even with babies in our arms and mayhem all around us, I have the sense that we’re the pillars standing still.

The kind of people that others may be able to lean on.





{ 53 }

LOREN HALE



Heavy rain beats against Connor’s bedroom windows, the glass fogged from an afternoon storm. My shit mood pretty much resembles the weather. My throat lined with sandpaper, my fingers shake the longer I read the printed-out email in my hands.

I rub my mouth with my bicep. “Where’d you get this?” I ask, my voice hollow. I can’t move off the edge of his bed.

Connor leans against the wall, having trouble masking his emotions. Distraught lines cross his forehead. “I have my sources,” he says softly.

Tears sear my eyes, threatening to fall and soak the paper. A part of me wants to scream, to cry, to let it all combust—but it stays tight inside my chest. Eating me from the inside out.

Ryke sits on the wooden surface of Rose’s vanity, his bare feet resting on her velvet-lined stool. Without raising my head, I can feel the heat of my brother’s concern. “Lo…”

I crumple the paper in a fist and shut my eyes.

“Lo,” Ryke repeats, his tone deep. “It doesn’t f*cking bother me. We should just ignore it like we always have.”

My leg bounces. These days are the hardest. The ones that make me forget about all the months I’ve spent sober. The ones that could give a flying f*ck about tomorrow or yesterday—the ones that only think of right now. And right now, I am in so much…pain.

“This isn’t just about you,” I tell him. I ball the news article, a pre-release emailed to Connor. The time stamp is dated for tomorrow morning.

In less than three-hundred words, they discredit a legitimate paternity test. They point out how Maximoff has dark brown hair.

My father’s hair.

Ryke’s hair.

I have lighter brown, a color shared with my birth mom. The article stretches and twists the truth into a disgusting, ugly goddamn lie. Earlier, Connor said, “People believe what they want to believe, and no proof will change stubborn preconceptions.”

His cynical view on humanity may be right, but this isn’t about Ryke’s feelings. It’s not about my feelings. I’ve learned to bear false accusations. I can take this. The ache in my stomach is not for me. Or even for Lily.

All the agony that courses through my body, razor-sharp and unrelenting, belongs to a two-month old in the room next door.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as emotions roil. “I don’t want my son confronting shit like this every damn day…” My voice breaks, and I take a breath. I smooth out the article, my vision too blurry to read the words. But I fold the paper into threes this time. “It’s bad enough that he has to live under a microscope. He shouldn’t have to answer any questions about who his real father is.”