Page 12

Chapter twelve

Levana

Honestly, if someone told me six months ago that I’d be standing here, ogling the sexiest librarian looking non-librarian I’ve ever met while he fixes a crack in my kitchen tile. I’d have laughed them off and shoved them in the mortuary to cool off.

But here I am, staring at Patrick as he’s crouched on the floor, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, pressing grout into the hairline split like he’s performing surgery. His glasses keep slipping down his nose, and every so often, he stops to push them back up with one knuckle.

I sip my coffee, and try not to perve out, but it’s not my fault the man has an ass that could make saints reconsider their vows, and forearms that make me want to gnaw right through the countertop just to relieve some tension.

Fucking ridiculous.

My phone buzzes on the counter, and I grab it, grateful for the distraction.

You still alive or did your boyfriend lock you in the basement yet?

Elliot’s dislike for Patrick is getting worse by the day, but I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my lips as my fingers fly over the screen.

I don’t have a basement, El.

Alright. Well, blink twice if you’re in danger.

You can’t even see me.

I’ll be able to feel it from here, trust me.

I snort under my breath, setting the phone down.

“Who’s got you smiling like that?” Patrick’s voice drifts up from the floor.

“Elliot,” I say, shaking my head with a small smile.

“He’s a bit much, no?”

I pause, mug halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?”

“Just…” he shrugs. “He obviously likes you.”

I blink. “Yeah, of course he does. We’re best friends.”

“No,” he says, huffing out a laugh through his nose. “Not like that.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He goes back to fiddling with the tile. “He likes you as more than that.”

I scoff. “Please. Elliot doesn’t—”

“He does,” he cuts in. “I’m telling you, Levana. The way he looks at you…”

“He doesn’t look at me any kind of way,” I argue. “We’ve been friends for years. If there was something there, don’t you think I’d know?”

He presses his lips together, eyes flicking away for a split second. “I don’t think you see it. But I do. He’s always hanging around, always checking in. I dunno. It’s just something to think about.”

I shake my head, laughing awkwardly. “You’re imagining things.”

“I don’t think I am.” He wipes his hands on a rag and stands, stretching his arms above his head.

He steps closer and rests one hand on my hip, thumb brushing slow circles just above my waistband.

“I just wanna protect you,” he says. “That’s all.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Protect me from Elliot?”

He shrugs. “From anything.”

“You’re sweet,” I grin up at him. “But honestly, it’s fine. He’s my best friend. I promise you, it’s nothing like that. think we’d both rather,” I pause, wracking my brain. “I don’t know. Chug bleach than ever be like that with each other.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Sure.”

What is it with these two? Honestly, they’re like a pair of stray cats, circling each other and hissing when the others name’s even mentioned.

Testosterone’s a hell of a drug.

My stomach growls, loud enough to rattle the fucking windows. I slap my hand over it like that’s gonna help.

Patrick grins. “What do you wanna eat?”

I don’t even have to think. “Cheese fries. Extra cheese. So much cheese that I hate myself afterward. How about you?”

He tilts his head, one brow raised, that familiar glint already sparkling in his eyes.

“Oh, no,” I say, wagging a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”

I know that look. I know exactly where he’s going before he even opens his mouth.

“Patrick,” I start, trying to step back, but he hauls me up into his arms and I shriek, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Put me down!”

“You sure?” He grins up at me, all wicked and smug, like he’s enjoying this way too much. “Because I was thinking,” He presses his face into my neck, lips dragging warm against my skin. “Maybe I could have something to eat first before we actually go for lunch?”

He dips down, biting at my throat, and I can’t help it. My hips rock against him, grinding against the hard press of him through his slacks.

“Fuck,” he growls, his teeth grazing my pulse. His fingers flex tighter against my waist, dragging me harder into him like he’s chasing the friction as much as I am.

Then, he sets my ass down on the counter, and his hand moves between us, fingers slipping low, right between my legs, coaxing a moan from my throat.

“You dirty girl, you’re so wet already,” he says as he presses his fingers harder. “How bad do you want me?”

“So fucking bad,” I gasp, digging my nails into his shoulders as his fingers move in teasing little circles that have my legs tightening around him.

“You want this?” he asks, voice thick with need. “Tell me again.”

“I want it,” I say on a breath. “I want you .”

“Yeah. Damn fucking right you do.”

His fingers drag against me one last time before he pulls away, lifting his hand to his mouth. He slowly slips his fingers past his lips, sucking them clean like it’s his last meal, and his eyes roll back slightly.

“I’d live off this forever if you’d let me,” he groans.

There’s a sudden, rhythmic buzzing from next to us. It’s my phone, skittering across the counter like it’s trying to shatter the moment on purpose.

He doesn’t even glance at it. “Don’t you dare answer that.”

Heat surges through me so fast I forget how to breathe. Shit. This is so fucking hot.

The sight of him like this—eyes dark and half-lidded, his fingers still glistening—makes a needy ache twist tight inside me. I swear I could come just from watching the way he’s looking at me now, like he wants to devour me whole.

“You like that?” His eyes rake over me, edged with hunger. “Watching me taste you?”

I can’t even speak, so I just nod.

He moves again, gaze locked onto mine as he dips his hand back to my pussy, sliding his fingers through my lips, coating himself in the wet mess between them.

I don’t even have time to moan before he’s dragging his tongue up the length of his fingers, licking them clean before closing his lips around them, sucking deep with a low groan.

He slips his fingers free with a wet pop, breathless as he stares down at me.“You’re addictive, you know that? You’ve got me so fucking desperate for you, I don’t even know what to do with myself.”

The sharp obnoxious ring of the landline splits through the air.

Why the fuck is this happening?

His head snaps up, like the sound punched through the haze of whatever dark place his mind had spiraled into.

“Don’t,” I gasp, rolling my hips back into him. “Just carry on.”

“Fuck yes,” His breath turns ragged as he finds my clit again, rolling slow, filthy circles that make my whole body shudder.

The phone keeps ringing, but I can barely hear it over the sharp stutter of my own choked moans.

“That’s it,” he breathes, fingers building a faster rhythm. “You’re not thinking about that phone, are you?”

I shake my head, gasping as his fingers press harder, the friction sharp and unbearable in the best possible way.

“No,” I choke out. “Just you. Just this.”

“Good,” he growls. “Because I’m not stopping until you come for me.”

The voicemail clicks on with a sharp crackle before my own voice filters through the room, tinny and distorted.

“This is Levana Foster,” the recording of my voice echoes into the room. “ I’m not here right now, so leave a message.”

Patrick’s fingers still.

There’s an empty, staticky silence before someone speaks.

“Hi, this is Angela from Ashfield Heights Residential Home.” The woman’s voice is calm, but there’s something tense in the edges of her words. “I’m calling about your mother. I’m afraid she’s had a bit of a fall. She’s conscious, but she’s taken quite a knock to her head, and we thought it best to have her checked out. She’s been taken to St. Luke’s Hospital. We’d really appreciate it if you could come down when you can. Thanks.”

The line goes dead.

“Shit,” I whisper.

I wriggle against Patrick, pushing at his chest.

“Levana?”

“Patrick, let me down.” I shove harder this time, and after a beat of hesitation, his arms drop.

The second I touch the floor, I’m running. I yank my boots on without bothering to lace them properly, grab my keys from the dish by the door, and I’m already halfway to the parking lot before I hear him behind me.

“Levana, wait!” Patrick’s voice carries across the space, footsteps quick behind me. “Should you be driving?”

“Don’t fucking care!” I snap, wrenching the car door open.

I’m in the driver’s seat before he can say anything else, keys in the ignition, fingers shaking as I start the car.

The passenger door opens, and he’s there, dropping into the seat beside me.

“Let me drive,” he says, low and urgent. “Just let me—”

But I’m already peeling away from the curb, tyres spitting up gravel as I hit the gas.

“Helen Foster? She’s my mom. Is she okay?”

“One second,” the nurse says, barely looking up as her fingers clack against her keyboard.

I shift from foot to foot. My heart’s hammering so hard it feels like my ribs are rattling.

Come on, come on, come on.

Patrick’s right behind me, hand firm at the small of my back. He isn’t saying a word, but his touch is grounding me, holding me together even though I feel like I’m about to crumble into the hospital floor.

“Ah, yes. Helen Foster. She’s stable. She’s been transferred to the east wing—Ward B, room 316” the nurse says, pointing vaguely down the corridor. “Go all the way down, through the double doors, past radiology, then take the elevator up to the third floor.”

Of course it’s at the opposite side of the fucking hospital.

“Thanks,” I say quickly, already turning away.

“Levana,” Patrick calls after me, but I don’t stop. I’m moving too fast, steps too quick, boots squeaking against the scuffed linoleum.

“Levana, wait!” His footsteps slap against the floor, catching up with me. “Slow down!”

“I can’t,” I snap over my shoulder. “I need to—”

He grabs my hand, tugging just enough to slow me down.

“Levana,” he says again, quieter this time. “She’s stable. If it was bad, they wouldn’t have said that.”

“She’s still in a hospital bed,” I bite out. “I can’t just take my time.”

“I get it,” he says, softer now. “But you’re going to hurt yourself getting there if you don’t slow down.”

I ignore him and keep moving, until he catches me by the arm again, stopping me in my tracks.

“Would you look at me, please?” he says.

My eyes snap up to his. His face is the polar opposite to how I feel right now, but his eyes are warm and anchoring.

“Just breathe,” he says quietly. “For me.”

I suck in a few shaky breaths, keeping my eyes locked on his.

“Better,” He says, nodding as he links his fingers through mine and squeezes. “Let’s go together, okay?”

He keeps hold of my hand as we walk through the maze of corridors that all look the same, with too many doors, beeping machines and quiet murmurs. The sharp scent of antiseptic clings to the air, and the floors gleam too brightly under the fluorescent lights, making everything feel cold and sterile.

By the time we finally get to the elevators, my nerves are firing off so loud I can barely hear myself think. The ride to the third floor is painfully slow, but Patrick’s still right there, fingers still laced through mine, still holding me steady.

When the doors slide open, I spot the sign for Ward B—one last stretch of hallway. My steps quicken again, but this time Patrick doesn’t stop me, just keeps hold of my hand, walking fast enough to match my pace.

Room 316.

I push the door open.

Mom’s in bed, half-propped up against stiff looking pillows. There’s a nurse with her, adjusting the IV line, and Carol, one of the staff from Ashfield Heights, is standing near the window with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

She straightens up when she spots us. “Oh! Hi, Miss Foster. We were just about to call you again.”

“You’re her daughter?” The nurse asks.

I answer with a small nod.

“She’s stable,” she says. “A bit dazed, but stable. We’re still waiting on some scans.”

“Scans?” I repeat.

“We just want to be extra cautious,” the nurse says as she heads toward the door. “It’s standard procedure after a fall like this.”

“Right… yeah. Okay.” I give her a small smile as she leaves, and turn to Carol. “How did it happen?”

“We aren’t entirely sure,” she admits with a wince. “A staff member found her in one of the corridors. It looks like she tripped. Must’ve hit her head on the way down.”

“Wait.” I blink at her. “She was alone?”

Carol hesitates. “Well—”

“Was no one watching her?” My voice rises. “I thought you were supposed to be keeping an eye on her.”

“We are,” Carol says carefully. “But residents still have some independence. We can’t follow them around all day.”

“She’s not some resident, she’s my mother,” I snap. “And you know how she gets sometimes. You know she’s confused, you know she wanders. And yet you just, what? Let her roam around by herself?”

“Levana,” Patrick murmurs, pressing his hand against my shoulder. “Come on.”

“No,” I bite out, stepping away from him. “I want to know how the hell this happened. Is that too much to ask? Is it?”

Carol’s shoulders drop a little, and her voice softens. “I get it,” she says quietly. “I know you’re upset, and you’ve got every right to be. But this wasn’t neglect, Miss. Foster. We do everything we can to make sure she’s safe.”

“Well, you’re not doing enough,” I snap. “Because if you were, she wouldn’t be here.”

Patrick’s hand finds my back again, rubbing between my shoulder blades this time.

“I’m sorry,” I say under my breath, running a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry, I just…”

“It’s okay,” Carol says, her voice still gentle. “I’ll leave you guys to it.”

She gives me a small smile before slipping out the door.

The silence that follows feels too heavy, like the air’s been sucked out of the room, but I force myself to breathe—to actually look at the woman who raised me.

Her head’s wrapped in a thick bandage, white against her patchy grey and auburn hair. A dark bruise is blooming across her temple, deep purple and swollen. Her lip’s split too, just a small cut, but enough to make her mouth look lopsided. Her hand’s limp against the blanket, mottled with angry blue splotches that look like ink stains.

“Oh, Mom…” I whisper as I pull the chair closer to the bed and sit down, reaching out to stroke her hand.

Her fingers twitch, and she stirs, eyelids fluttering before she blinks up at me, eyes glassy and confused.

“Levana… What happened?” she asks, grimacing a little as she shifts against the pillows.

“You fell, Mom,” I say gently. “Do you remember? You had a bit of a tumble.”

Her brow furrows.

“No. No, I don’t remember.” She pauses, eyes flicking round the room. “Where’s your daddy? Is he here?”

I swallow hard. “No, Mom. He’s back home.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointment flooding her voice. “Well, have you been to see him?”

My ribs pinch my heart.

“Yeah, I have,” I lie with a smile.

“Oh good,” she sighs, her fingers twitching beneath mine. I squeeze gently, and her voice cracks just a little as she adds, “I’ve missed you.”

“I miss you too, Mom,” I tell her. And I mean it, more than I know how to put into words.

“I’ve missed Violet as well,” she says softly. “Where is she?”

The air rushes out of me like I’ve been sucker punched, and my stomach twists, sharp and sick. “What?”

“You heard me.” Her voice sharpens as her eyes lock onto mine. “Where is she?”

Oh God. Not this. Please not this. Not now.

“She’s…” I pause, swallowing hard against my sandpaper tongue. “She’s not here.”

“So where is she?” She asks.

“She’s at daycare,” I just about manage to choke out.

Her face crumples like I’ve just given her the worst news in the world. “But she’s so tiny. You shouldn’t be away from her like that. She’s just a baby.”

“I know,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“She’s your little girl,” she presses, shaking her head. “You don’t put her in daycare. Why isn’t Dominic watching her?”

My heart seizes.

Dominic.

Violets dad. My first love. My first everything.

We were teenage sweethearts, the kind everyone assumed would stay together forever. But after Violet, it all changed. He changed. Or maybe we both did. I don’t know. The love turned sour really quickly. He wasn’t violent or cruel. Just distant. Passive.

We stopped talking. Stopped laughing. Every day was us walking on eggshells around each other.

So we split.

No screaming match or dramatic ending. I let him heal in his own way, and I focused on healing in mine.

I never looked back. Not really.

But I still check in on him sometimes—socials, the odd bit of news if I ever bump into old friends.

He’s married now. Two more babies. A whole different life.

I’m happy for him. I truly am.

I’ve moved on too, in my own way.

Still stings sometimes, though.

Not because I miss him, or what we had.

But because of what was lost. Because that part of my life just ended so suddenly, and the world kept turning. Everyone else kept living whilst I stood still.

I shift in my seat and clear my throat. “He’s not around anymore, Mom.”

She huffs, brushing invisible crumbs from her blanket. “Well, I never liked him anyway.”

That makes me laugh under my breath despite everything. Even now, that part of her never changes.

“Still,” she adds. “At least let her stay with us when you’re working. Me and Daddy will figure it out.”

There are so many words I want to say to her. But none will make a difference, they’ll only upset her, they’ll only make things worse. So instead, I force a smile I can barely even feel. “Okay, Mom. That would be really nice. Thank you.”

Mom’s face softens, her shoulders relaxing, but the pressure in my chest swells.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Keep it together.

Out of nowhere, her face lights up and she’s beaming. “And who’s this handsome fella?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I’d completely forgotten Patrick was still there.

He’s by the wall, hands in his pockets, just watching us. His eyes meet mine, and my gut clenches, heart picking up.

“That’s Patrick,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “He’s… he’s a friend.”

“A friend?” Mom’s grin turns syrupy sweet, her glassy eyes practically sparkling. “Well, Patrick. Aren’t you just a sight for sore eyes?”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head.

“You’re a lucky man,” she adds. “Levana’s a real catch.”

“Oh yeah,” he says with a grin. “I know.”

His gaze locks onto mine and bile bubbles up my throat.

“You two would make a lovely couple,” She continues, voice still breezy

“I think so too,” he says.

“Are you going to pop the question?” She presses.

“I will at some point.”

“And you’re going to give her more babies, yes?”

Jesus Christ, Mom.

I open my mouth to cut her off—to steer this whole damn conversation off a cliff—but Patrick’s already speaking.

“Absolutely,” he nods. “I can’t wait.”

I blink.

Okay… so I haven’t completely scared him off, then. That’s something, I guess.

But he’s clearly just playing along, trying to keep Mom happy. Right?

At least I hope so. We haven’t even had that discussion, it’s too early. And I don’t think I ever want children again…

My mind spirals whilst he keeps humouring her—smiling at her jokes, nodding along like he’s really enjoying himself. But his eyes keep flicking to me every few minutes.

He knows . He knows about Violet now. And I have no idea what that means.

For us. For me. For anything.

After a while, the doctor finally comes in with her scan results. Mild concussion. The obvious bruising. They want her to stay in for a few days, just to keep an eye on things. That should make me feel relieved. But it doesn’t. My stomachs knotting and flipping over itself, and my skull feels like it’s about to burst.

Patrick insists on driving me home. Says I shouldn’t be behind the wheel after today. I don’t argue. I’m too tired to argue.

I just slide into the passenger seat, barely managing to buckle my seatbelt before I fold forward, pressing my forehead to the dashboard. The tears hit before I even feel them coming—hot and sharp, spilling down my cheeks faster and faster before I can stop them.

“Fuck,” I gasp, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes like that might somehow steady the flow of sobs tearing out of my chest. “Fucking hell.”

“Hey,” Patrick’s hand finds my back, rubbing slow circles across my shoulders as he tries to soothe me. “Hey. You’re okay.”

Mom. Violet. The weight of it all crashes in hard, and I shake my head against the dashboard, breath stuttering.

“No. I’m not,” I choke out. “I’m not okay.”