Page 59 of Rule the Night (Blackwell Butchers #1)

MAEVE

I woke up with a wicked hangover, but thankfully, not to a lecture from the Butchers. Bram wasn’t home, but Poe made me breakfast and Remy made me drink a green smoothie that tasted better than it looked and actually made me feel better.

They both asked if I was okay, if there was anything they could do, and they made it clear what had happened wasn’t mine and Bailey’s fault even though we’d definitely been drunk.

I felt stupid, but I knew they were right. We were allowed to drink too much without worrying we were going to get raped in a parking lot by a couple of dickheads.

By lunchtime, I’d rallied. I checked in with Bailey and made chicken soup and chile relleno to freeze for the week. Then I took a shower and got ready for dinner with my family.

I was honest with the Butchers about where I was going, although I didn’t tell them it was my twenty-second birthday.

Whatever had developed between us was temporary.

I had six more weeks left in my three months of servitude, and while my playtime with Remy and Poe at the orchard the week before had made passing the time more fun, I wasn’t naive enough to think it meant anything.

I still blushed thinking about it, even though I was alone in June’s car and on the way to my parent’s house. I’d never had a twosome before, and I’d definitely never had a twosome while a third guy watched.

I wouldn’t even try to pretend that I hadn’t wanted Bram to join in, but that didn’t mean fucking Poe and giving Remy a blow job while Bram was just a few feet away hadn’t been hot as hell.

I could still see the way he’d looked at me while Poe was eating my pussy. And sure, his expression had been as unreadable as ever, but the bulge in his jeans had said everything his face didn’t.

I was kind of worked up when I pulled in front of my parents’ house, a neat two-story farmhouse with a black door and green shutters.

The gardens were well maintained, the lawn trimmed to perfection.

It looked like a middle-class house out of a movie, and I suddenly wondered what the Butchers thought about my safe, sheltered upbringing.

I didn’t know everything about them, but I knew Poe had struggled in more ways than one, and I got the feeling Bram hadn’t had an easy time of it either.

Remy was like me: a middle-class kid who grew up in Blackwell Falls with two siblings, which was hard to imagine given the way he lived his life now.

I took a minute to distance myself from them in my mind, pushing the memory of the apple orchard, the stream trickling innocently nearby while I’d been having the best sex of my life, as far down into my psyche as I could.

I checked my makeup in the mirror more to kill some time than because I was worried about how I looked, although my skin did look a little sallow from my drinking binge the night before.

And honestly, part of me did wonder if my newfound sexual experience could be seen on my face.

It seemed impossible that no one could know what I’d done with the Butchers, how they’d lit me on fire with their mouths and dicks, but the reflection staring back at me from the mirror in June’s visor looked the same as always.

I’d kept my makeup light, but I’d left my hair down for once and had worn a floral sundress from Lushberry’s fall collection — a birthday present to myself — with my lug-soled boots.

Poe had whistled when I’d come downstairs, and Remy had said, “Damn, killer.”

But Bram had barely lifted his eyes from his computer, back to giving me the silent treatment.

Once I was sure I had my blood pressure in check, I got out of the car and went inside.

I was immediately greeted by the smell of my dad’s homemade tomato sauce and meatballs.

The butter and garlic that laced the air told me there would be garlic bread too, and if there was spaghetti and meatballs, I knew there would be Caesar salad, tossed with my dad’s from-scratch dressing, fresh anchovy paste included.

“I’m home!” I called out.

Footsteps thundered from down the hall and a minute later I was almost knocked off my feet by my little sister Olivia.

I laughed, wrapping my arms around her as I tried to keep my balance. “You act like I haven’t seen you in a year!”

“It’s been almost two months!” she said without letting me go.

I was immediately awash with guilt. “I know, I’m sorry.”

I’d kept in touch with everyone via text, but I hadn’t been home since before the Hunt. I didn’t have an excuse, especially since I’d been living a mile away in town, except that I hadn’t been sure I could lie to my parents about where I was living.

I still wasn’t, but my living situation had calmed down enough that I thought I could bluff my way through a conversation without giving away the details.

I pulled back to look at Olivia. “You look taller!”

I didn’t say the other thing that occurred to me: that she looked like June. She had June’s brown eyes and the same dimples when she smiled.

“You think?”

I nodded. “Definitely.”

“Hey,” Simon said, padding into the entry on bare feet.

“Oh my god,” I said. “You’re like, eight feet tall now.”

He blushed and gave me the kind of awkward hug that only a seventeen-year-old boy could give his sister. “Glad you came home.”

“Like I’d miss Dad’s meatballs.”

“Ah, so it’s the food that finally brought you back,” my dad said, entering the foyer from the living room.

I released Simon and walked into my dad’s arms. “Very funny.”

“I’m not being funny!” He squeezed me tight and I inhaled the familiar scent of his aftershave mingled with garlic and olive oil. “Happy birthday, kid.”

“Thanks.” I pulled away. “Where’s Mom?”

“Kitchen. I’ve put her to work as my sous chef since you’ve been gone.”

“Oh boy.” My mom was notoriously horrible in the kitchen. Not as bad as Reva — mostly because my mom didn’t bother trying to cook anything — but bad enough that I broke a sweat when she wielded a knife near a sweet potato.

“It’s a work in progress.” My dad threw his arm around my shoulders and we walked through the living room into the kitchen. “The prodigal daughter returns.”

My mom barely looked up at the announcement, and I immediately knew that she was pissed.

“Hi, Mom.” I went around the island to give her a hug, but she was busy drying romaine, her hug half-hearted.

“Happy birthday!” She tried to sound cheerful, but I knew my mom well enough to know it was forced.

“Thanks. Dad said he put you to work.”

She returned her focus to the salad spinner. “Unfortunately.”

Clearly I’d have to do some damage control.

“I can help.” I went to the hooks on the wall and chose one of the aprons that hung there, a pink striped number that I still considered mine. “Put me in, coach.”

My dad lifted the lid of a pot on the stove and the kitchen filled with the scent of cooked meat and rich tomato sauce. “It’s your birthday.”

“Exactly,” I said, “and I want to cook with my dad.”

“If you insist.” He smiled and handed me a cutting board and two loaves of French bread, and for the next half hour, I forgot all about my strange new life in the loft across town, if not about the three men who’d captured more than my imagination.

I even almost forgot that June wasn’t there. That she should have been there.

Almost.