Be My Brayshaw (Brayshaw High #4)(40)

“Yes!” Zoey shouts, making us all laugh.

It’s the same exact question every day, and Raven plays along each time.

“Then I think so, too.” She winks, raising her eyes to Maddoc.

Of the three of them, Maddoc is the most timid with Zoey. I’m not so sure it’s nerves as it is maybe he’s afraid.

Outside of us, Raven is the first person he’s ever loved, but every time he looks at my daughter, at his niece, it’s not hard to spot the tenderness there.

I’m almost positive it terrifies him, makes him fear how hard he’ll love his own baby, and I get it. It’s the most powerful feeling I’ve ever known, but I can’t help and wonder if he’s fearful of loving someone more than he does Raven.

I can’t answer that for him, though, because I have no clue how it works, the love of your woman in comparison to the love of your child.

I imagine it’s different, but just as strong.

I look to our dad, who pointedly shifts his eyes to my SUV only to bring them right back, a heavy, disapproving frown carved across his forehead.

“Son.”

“Don’t,” I warn. “She deserves no part of this and she knows it.”

“You saying she wasn’t warned to drag behind?”

“Does it matter?”

His eyes narrow as he attempts to read the thought behind mine. “I’m thinking, yeah, it does. It’s a sign of respect.”

“Or fear of what we’d do.”

“It ain’t fear.” Royce steps up with a shrug. “If she was afraid, she never would have hid shit from us, and when we found out, she’d have tried to run. The girl lived on our property, in our group home. She went to our school, walked up in our house, lies and all. Someone afraid wouldn’t do any of that.”

“I have to agree,” our dad says, sliding his hands in his pockets.

“Maybe she’s a master con artist, and you’re both wrong.”

“Maybe she is, son.” He nods. “But maybe not.”

Royce frowns at our dad, but I shake him off. Now is not the time for this shit.

I waited all day to get home to my daughter, I won’t allow a deceiving blonde to take a second of my time.

I turn away from them both, kneeling in front of Zoey. “Daddy’s hungry, Zo. Wanna help me make a snack?”

“Me, too?” She smiles.

“Yeah, you, too.” I laugh.

“And Uncle Bro too!” Royce adds, scooping her up and helicoptering her into the house, but not before pausing and turning to Maddoc. “You wish you had a cool nickname, bro.”

Maddoc scoffs, but with a grin. “My kid’s gonna call you Uncle Dumbass.”

“Nah... your kid’s gonna call me daddy,” Royce throws right as he runs off.

Raven laughs, gripping Maddoc by the arm before he can chase after him.

We step inside, not one of us bothering to glance back at the girl left alone in the back seat.





I unbuckle Zoey from her car seat, and she hops right out, dashing across the driveway until she reaches the porch steps.

“Oh no!” She freezes, turning back right as I begin following. “My train!”

Maybell walks out right then, and I smile from her to Zo. “I’ll get it, baby girl. Go inside with Miss Maybell.”

“Okay!” Zoey grabs her hand and Maybell laughs as she drags her into the house.

I walk to the vehicle and open the back to grab her stuffed train when a streak of blonde catches my eye around the right side of the house.

Victoria must have seen us pull up and went out the back.

I close the door, tracking her movement and instead of sticking by the flowers this time, she searches across the mounds, picking one that looks ready to die and carries it to the farthest side of the pool. She chooses the only spot with the little bit of sunlight left and lies back, placing the flower on her chest right as her eyes close.

I head inside, make sure Zoey is good with Maybell, and take the stairs two at a time toward Victoria’s room.

The door is shut, but I had her lock removed, so I push it open with ease.

A quick, resilient burn fires down my throat as my senses are assaulted, a heavy mix of lavender and mint, sun and fucking sin, the only proof she lives inside these walls.

I had the room completely remodeled for her when I thought her place here was starting a lot differently.

Fresh paint and brand new furniture, a bright chandelier to match.

I wasn’t sure what her style would be, but satin seemed fitting and the colors are soft with some royal blue among the room, the crystals hanging from above offering a ray of light throughout where the sun or moon can’t reach.

Annoyance flares when I look in her closet, finding her small selection of clothes still neatly folded inside her bags, the hangers and drawers all empty, bed pristinely made as if she’s never even slept in it.

The two small blankets laying over the reading chair lead me to believe she hasn’t. The computer is off, curtain’s still drawn up the way they were the day it was prepared for her—before we found out she purposely withheld information from us.

She hasn’t settled in the slightest fucking bit.

I should be happy about that, her understanding she’s got no guarantee.