In Peace Lies Havoc (Midnight Mayhem #1)(37)

He tilts his head, watching me with a new fascination. “Who taught you how to sing like that, Little Bird?”

“I was born with it, and then my mom had me take singing lessons every day after my ballet classes.”

“She sounds like a bitch,” he bites out, stumbling up from my bed and reaching for his bottle.

I lean over, snatching it out of his reach. “She wasn’t. She was just…driven, and I think you’ve had enough.”

Lying backward on my bed, he lets the bottle slip to my fingers. I catch it just in time. My head spins, but I curl my lip beneath my teeth to stop my laugh.

“What’s funny, Little Bird?” he murmurs, shading his eyes with his forearm. He kicks off his shoes and removes his shirt, before climbing up my bed and dropping down into a comfortable position.

“Yeah, you’re not staying in here, Keaton,” I say, shaking his arm. But it’s too late. It’s like shaking a corpse. He won’t move.

I sigh, climbing off my bed. I make my way into the kitchen when I pause in my steps at Kingston perched on one of the chairs, a drink just short of his lips. I ignore him, moving further into the kitchen. I pull open the fridge, pausing when I see it’s fully stocked again, reaching for a bottle of water.

“What’d you think of the show, Little B?” Kingston’s voice is cold, bitter. It leaves his mouth sharp and swallows down mine like a bitter shot of tequila. My hand comes to my mouth briefly at the thought of tequila.

“About as bad as I thought it’d be.” I screw off the lid and take a sip.

He laughs, standing from his chair. That’s when I notice he’s not wearing a shirt, only loose jeans. He looks dirty, deranged, and not someone I should trust to be around me right now. He’s obviously drunk.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

“Because I haven’t seen all of your acts?” I ask, squeezing the bottle in my hand. I’m well aware of their stunts and what they can do physically, and Keaton can sing, and I mean the man can sing like Lewis Capaldi, and that’s drunk, but I haven’t seen a show from start to finish.

He pauses a few short steps away from me and tilts his head. I try to fight myself and not look too closely at what he’s doing or how he’s looking. I fail, though, because his hair is floppy and messy, his cheeks slightly flushed from the alcohol, and his body. His damn body. It’s not fair. I catch the two roses that are inked over his left hip, ducking beneath his briefs. One sits just above the other. The other over the edge. It looks to have less detail, less love. The one that slightly dips underneath has clarity and precision. It has passion.

“Getting a good look?” he asks, shoving past me to put his glass in the sink. “I’m getting tired of you eye-fucking me, Little Bird. I might just see if those eyes can match the promises they’re giving out.” He turns to face me, and I can feel his breath over my flesh.

I close my eyes and shove away from him, needing to be away. Away from him. From the fire that threatens to burn me to a crisp.

He brushes his chest against mine, and I back up, slamming against the kitchen counter. Each hand comes to the counter, caging me in. “Just to be clear, I hate you.”

“You don’t know me,” I snap, bringing my eyes up to his.

He searches mine and smirks. It sends chills down my spine. “I know more than you will ever know.”

I shiver, taking my attention away from him, only his hand comes to the back of my hair, and he yanks on it, pulling my eyes to his. “I don’t have to like you to want to fuck you, so just in case you get bored one night, my room is the one at the end of the hallway upstairs. Before you even think of wrapping these pretty little lips around anyone else’s cock again, I’d advise against it.”

“Why?” I yank my hair out of his grip.

His eyes slant in suspicion before he collects himself again and steps backward. “Because you’d go to waste on anyone else.”

He turns, and I watch the stupid muscles on his back contract as he retreats upstairs.

Storming back to my room, I’m even more annoyed when I see Keaton is still on my bed, now snoring.

I exhale, dropping down beside him. I turn to face his back, studying all of the tattoos that go up the back of his neck. They’re almost demonic. I’ve heard people say that some use tattoos as a way to express how they feel inside. If that’s the case with Keaton, I wouldn’t want to know who he is inside. It’s a form of art, and there’s no right or wrong way to art. No one can tell you what is wrong art or what is right art. If you don’t see what the artist wants you to see, then that art is simply not for you—that doesn’t make it wrong. It makes it wrong for you. My eyes drift closed and I’m pulled into a deep sleep.



I’d made a lot of mistakes growing up, but I’ve never thought of them that way. I never regretted the decisions I made because, essentially, who was to say that those decisions weren’t what saved me from another.

That night with The Shadow ate away at my insides and turned me rotten at my core.

Not because I hated it or regretted it.

Not because I felt dirty or disgusting.

It turned me rotten because I found myself drawn to him even more. Like a moth to a flame, uncaring by the fact that I could die if I flew too close to the very thing that I’m attracted to. But that feeling became worn as time went on. The Shadow became more violent with his presence. He never touched me again like he did that night.