Page 134 of The Cruelest Chaos

And when he picks his head up from her chest and his mouth comes to mine, Ella between us, I know something I didn’t before.

As I taste his tears on my tongue, I realize that love is strange.

It can be mad, and it can be a cruel sort of chaos. It can be violent and terrible and damaging.

That part I’ve understood, since I was a kid.

What I didn’t get was that…it’s okay.

It doesn’t matter how awful it is.

There is no right way to love. There’s no wrong way, either, not really. It’s out of our hands.

Love is love, and it meets people exactly where they’re at. Ella met me, and I her. And the both of us met my brother, and I know that Jeremiah and Sid met one another, too.

As much as I might hate that, I can’t fight it.

Neither can they.

Let it go.

Lucifer’s mouth is warm and wet against mine, and he chokes on a sob as I let him take what he wants from me, Ella holding onto both of us.

Let it go.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Spring comes early to Alexandria.

Maverick sits on the back porch, staring off at the fountain, the morning sun barely risen. He’s dressed in a t-shirt and grey sweats, his elbows on his knees.

I glance at him from the back door, then turn to take in the state of the living room. Cain is passed out on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, his bare chest rising and falling softly. He’s got bruises on his torso and I’m not sure if they’re from sex or his fights in the ring, but they seem almost as permanent a part of him as birthmarks or freckles.

Ezra is asleep upstairs.

So is Brooklin Astor.

She’s a lot like Maverick. Full of fight and guts and she’s so beautiful and still…healing.

A lot like Maverick.

I glance again at him. He’s still staring into the distance, lost in his own thoughts.

When I turn back, it’s not Cain I look at.

It’s Lucifer.

He’s on the floor, the coffee table dragged over to the opposite wall of the couch Cain is sleeping on. Lucifer’s got a pile of blankets underneath him, his arms folded under his pillow, head twisted to the side, his lips slightly parted, eyes closed as he sleeps.

He looks tortured, just as he does when he’s awake. There’s a crease between his dark brows, and I see his bare shoulders, the blanket tugged down to the middle of his back. Every muscle in his lean body is tense.

I wonder if he dreams of her.

In the three weeks that’ve passed since Noctem, since the 6 took Ria and Sid and me and threw us to the wolves, he hasn’t spoken of her, at least not around me, save for once. He hasn’t really spoken much at all, period. He’s drank a lot and he’s always around, but he rarely…participates.

An orphan with an estranged wife, my heart aches for him.

We haven’t done what we did again since that first time, the three of us tasting each other’s hurts, and I know it would kill Maverick if we did. I know, too, that I can’t stop Lucifer’s pain. Neither can his brothers.