Page 85 of The Casualty of Us (Philosophies of the Heart Duet #1)

Chapter Forty-Two

I crack my eyes to the sound of a soft buzz and find my head on Hayes’s chest, all toasty from how he’s heating me up under the blanket.

A happy sigh leaves me and I look up to see how the bruises along the left side of his face are even darker today as the sound registers.

One that has me hurriedly sliding out of the bed and walking over to where I dropped my phone last night.

Still not wanting to wake him up despite the light filtering in from behind my bedroom curtains.

Barely resisting the urge to run straight back to bed as a shiver runs through me at the cold air filling the room and I reach down to pick the phone up.

The sight of Talan’s name has my intuition flickering to life, but I still force my thumb across the screen, lifting it to my ear and quickly whispering, “Yeah?”

“Uh…” he drags out, seeming a bit at a loss, which is saying a lot in itself, really. “There’s a Miranda Simms here.”

Not needing to say exactly what she’s here for because there’s only one reason.

She’s here to fuck with Hayes’s head or threaten her way into making him come back, and—nope. Fuck that.

“Please show her to the living room,” I continue carefully, glancing toward the bed and checking that he’s still sleeping while walking to the bathroom.

“Make sure she stays there until I come down, and Talan—” I close the door before adding hopefully, “If you felt she was threatening enough to justify shooting at any point, there just might be a bonus in it for you.”

The sound of him choking comes about a second before I pull the phone away from my ear and end the call. Whatever.

I glance at myself in the mirror for the first time since last night, brows falling at the way my waves look like they’ve been through a tumble dry.

The strands of brown are going every which way around my face, and my lips are sitting all kinds of puffy with some shadows still lingering under my eyes despite the sleep.

It’s the very visible mark resting on my pulse point that has my eyes narrowing though.

Quickly zeroing in on how the thing is freaking purple against my skin with little marks to it that look suspiciously like teeth.

“That little shit,” I whisper to myself, scowling at the mark that’s as good as a tattoo of his name on my ass, only much more visible.

Not that I’d ever say that and give him the idea.

He’d definitely run with it.

I roll my eyes, opening the drawer where my makeup is stashed, mumbling to myself about nepo rock star babies while digging through it.

Pulling out my concealer and blush before I smack the first under my eyes and round it out with the second on my cheeks.

Not caring enough about what this woman thinks of me to do much more besides brush my teeth and toss my hair up in a clip after that.

Leaving the mark visible just for kicks.

The door thankfully cooperates in my attempt to be quiet when I pull it open and step out of the bathroom, tiptoeing to where my closet sits on the other side of the room.

I grab a pair of panties and black sweatpants before tugging them on quickly and snagging my favorite slipper boots.

The green Pinecrest sweatshirt I’m still wearing from last night is thick enough that I don’t bother with a bra before heading out of the room, stopping once I’m safely tucked in the hallway to tug the shoes on as the soreness between my legs starts to make itself very apparent.

It leaves me wincing a little as I start down the hallway with small steps, failing to make my gait more normal if the instant humor on Talan’s face when he sees me from the bottom of the stairs is any indication.

Already dressed for the day in jeans and a Henley, he watches as it takes me a lot longer to make it to the bottom than normal.

Not that I’m exactly trying to cover it up at the moment either.

I finally come to a stop on the bottom step and meet his eyes, watching as he presses his lips together to contain a laugh that has me whispering, “Shut up.” Jerking my head to where the living room sits behind the wall on my right, I double-check, “Is she in there?”

“Oh yeah,” he tuts back quietly. “Good luck with that one.”

“Thanks,” I scoff, clutching my phone tight in my hand while letting one foot then the other just kind of fall off that last step.

“Mia’s in the kitchen,” he adds under his breath. “I’m headed out after this for a couple of days.”

I cock my head at him. “You going home for Christmas?”

“No.” He shakes his head in return. “Just going to visit a friend.”

“Huh.” I frown up at him for a second, not remembering him ever mentioning friends before, but obviously he has to have them.

He is a person after all. I almost roll my eyes at my ability to tunnel vision, remembering when he did the same thing to me and quickly telling him instead, “Well, have fun and go easy on the eggnog, yeah?”

“You too, kid.” His lips lift with a small smile. “Merry Christmas, and don’t give the Flynn kid or Ollie too much trouble, okay? They’re the only ones who fix that face.”

I give into the urge to roll my eyes this time, a quiet laugh leaving me before tossing back, “Merry Christmas.”

Finally moving past him with the smile dying on my lips at what’s about to come next.

I step into the living room and find her perched on the edge of the sofa.

Her long legs are crossed at the ankle and covered in tailored white pants that pair perfectly with her red silk blouse.

The matching white jacket she has on with the oversized gold buttons is probably not doing anything to help keep her warm from the cold, but there’s no denying that she looks fantastic.

Even if she’s clearly uncomfortable as she looks around at the gingerbread-themed Christmas decorations my mother chose this year and the fireplace that’s still got embers flickering from last night.

Stockings hang along it with our names all stitched to them, and the tree to its left fills the room with the scent of the holidays.

But the sight of her has my heart clenching with a sharp ache because she is the absolute spitting image of the boy up in my bed.

It has my already uneven gait hitching for a step, any picture I’ve glanced at of her not doing the resemblance justice. The only difference being his eyes and the strength of his jaw, really, with hers being a vibrant green that I can see from here.

But everything else…her long black hair, the deep olive skin, the features that just somehow work to create a pretty—

“Who are you?”

She tilts her head at me with the question, and I shake off the further sense of familiarity at the move, focusing instead on the hint of a British accent I was definitely not expecting and dropping down into the nearest one of the two chairs across from her.

Shifting a little and trying to find a more comfortable position for a second before the soreness just starts to twinge more.

I hide a wince before giving up, letting my body sink into the seat despite the pain and promising myself that as soon as this is done I’m going to force Hayes figure out some way to make it better.

“Hello.” I meet her gaze with a sigh, finally acknowledging her and quickly hardening that wall again. “I’m Ophelia.” The strangeness of this moment starts to set in, and I pause before continuing factually, “And you’re Miranda Simms.”

“Impressive.” Her eyes narrow with a scoff that has that sense of déjá vu kicking up. “You can speak. Now tell me where my son is.” She looks from side to side like he’ll pop out of thin air. “The company he hired at the airport said they brought him here.”

I lift my lips with something that’s not quite a smile before starting with some honesty. “You’re stunning. Truly.” Her face fills with an irritated look but I ignore it, quickly adding instead. “Hayes never mentioned you grew up in England.”

Her childhood was never relevant enough to my goals for me to make it a priority to research, but that bit of an accent is just the cherry on top of her whole package, and looking at her now, I can see so easily how it all went down.

The thrall she probably had on the American rocker with the questionable lifestyle before that personality really came to the surface.

That hint of fragility she seems to inherently possess and possibly unintentionally display that has me having to work to control the scowl that wants to pop up at it.

Because I can so see the way Hayes would struggle with her—with all of it.

He’s someone who deeply wants to take care of the people he loves and be worthy enough in their eyes to do so, and she’s pretty much the perfect poison to that.

A shade of what I maybe could have been in another life.

“So did you grow up in England?” I prompt when she continues to stare at me like she’s not quite sure what to do before giving a short laugh. “Oh, and would you like tea or coffee?” I lift a brow at her in question, adding carelessly, “How rude of me.”

“No,” she finally snaps back, irritation clear in her voice while reciting rotely.

“My mother was from Greece, and my father was from France—they settled on London as a place to raise their children.” She takes a deep breath before giving me a smile of her own that makes me think she definitely does know who I am.

“Now would you please go get my son and tell him it’s time to leave the whore behind and come home for Christmas? ”

Huh.

There’s the teeth.

So I show my own, giving her a small smile in return and telling her simply. “No.”

Because there’s no way I’m not winning this fight.

She balks, beauty distorting for a split second. “Wha—”

“He’s sleeping,” I cut her off with a drawn-out sigh. “Which he definitely needs, and honestly I see no reason to because you’ll soon be inconsequential in his life.”

Her eyes narrow on me with true loathing this time. “Excuse me?”