Seizing Control: Redemption

Caught between the desires of my first love and the possibility of a second chance with my husband, I’ve demanded time and space to think.

Six months to find my feet as a mother of three before I’m forced to face the fact that I’m in love with two living and breathing men.

Best friends for a lifetime recently turned rivals.
One who faked being dead.
One who embraces death as his due.

Their lies and secrets have put me in the middle of them, and a grace period to adjust to the truth is sorely needed.

The danger we face means I can’t have the space I need, so I double down on my request for time. We exist in the same home. Dote on our children together. Dance around the lust growing between us as I find healing in my new life.

Little do they know, but I’m teetering on the edge.

I want them.
Together.
They want me.
Separately.

In the midst of duplicity and rekindling, will we find peace… or are we destined to spend the rest of our lives at war with our hearts?

• BDSM elements

• Drug use

• Profanity

• Violence

• Emotional manipulation

• Torture (on page, descriptive)

• Non-consensual sex (under coersion)

• Love triangle (readers may feel some events constitute cheating)

• Dub-con (under coersion)

• Attempted suicide of a main character

• Pregnancy and birth complications

• Infertility

• Mentions of Abortion

• Body Dysmorphia

• Mental illness

• Intellectual disability

• Menage (MFM)

Prologue
Lily
Aged: Nineteen

As I wake, hazy and still feeling peaceful after my sleeping pill induced sleep, I slowly become aware of the heavy weight that’s lying across my waist. Trying my hardest not to freak out, I concentrate on breathing deeply and keeping my heart from racing. I drag in a deep breath and bring with it a lungful of Zeke’s scent. It calms me as much as I can be calmed lately, and I relax back into his embrace.

Closing my eyes again, I try to imagine the outline of his bare chest as it’s pressed against my back. The defined muscles, the hard ridges, and the smooth tattooed skin that covers them. I draw in another breath, luxuriating in his smell once again, and letting it strengthen me enough that I can lace my fingers between his and pull his arm tighter around him as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It should be. Just me and him. Nothing separating us. Bare skin pressed against bare skin instead of the material of my oversize T-shirt, the scars that cover my body, and the poisonous mess inside my head creating a barrier between us. If I was normal. If I hadn’t ruined my life—and his.

“Sweet thing,” Zeke whispers the endearment against the back of my head. “You awake?”

Opening my eyes, I force myself to swallow to rid myself of my suddenly dry mouth. Then I send a quick prayer to god and put my traitorous body further to the test this morning. Turning in Zeke’s arms, I press my chest against his and lift my face to him. It takes him a moment to catch on to what I’m looking for, but when he does, the surprise that lights up his eyes is amusing.

Without wasting a second, Zeke lowers his lips to mine and kisses me. We’ve pressed our lips against each other’s a few times since I was released from the hospital. Purely platonic lip locks that have tested my fractured psyche right along with Zeke’s patience. This one is different.

I’ve initiated it.

I’m the one who parts her lips and prods the seam of his mouth with my tongue.

I’m the one who winds her fingers into his hair and pulls his body over mine.

It’s mind-blowing. Revisiting the connection that we created on that one night we were able to spend together before I made a decision that turned everything in my—our—life on its head. The feeling of his soft lips against mine. The weight of his body as it presses mine into the mattress. The silky feel of the skin that covers the powerful muscles in his shoulders as I dig my fingernails into them. It’s exhilarating. I feel normal. Like Zeke’s Lily once again.

Until it goes too far...

Zeke’s hips push between my legs. His hard bulge presses against my cotton-covered core. And it all comes rushing back. The pain. The humiliation. My ruin. One minute, it’s Zeke above me, and my heart is pounding in my chest from the desire he makes pump through my veins. The next, it’s Alex, and my heart is pounding in my ears as I wait for him to force his cock into my body and tear me apart again.

My fingernails change from a lover’s tender touch into weapons that rip at his skin. My teeth become vicious instruments that hurt him instead of walking the fine line between pleasure and the lick of pain that he enjoys. And my body turns from a liquefied mass of limbs that matches his lust-filled movements into a statue that refuses his caress.

“Get off. Alex. I said get off,” I scream, then sink my teeth into his bottom lip. Tangy copper invades my mouth. My fingernails scratch at every inch of exposed flesh that I can find, and a perverse sense of justice overcomes me as I feel it tear from my attack. I will not go through this again. My body is mine now. Control of my person will never be yielded again.

I’ll die first.

“Lily. Jesus. Fuck. Stop it.” I hear the words. I know they aren’t coming from Alex, yet it makes no difference to my broken mind. “It’s me. It’s Zeke. Fuck.”

A heavy weight pins my thrashing body to the bed. The wild motions I’m making with my arms—my fingers shaped into claws to protect me—are brought to an abrupt halt when they are held above my head. Despite my best efforts, I’m subdued with ridiculous ease and left panting as what I’ve just done begins to dawn.

Zeke sits astride my waist, his weight keeping my legs under control while his arms pin my upper body. Avoiding his face, I look at his torso. It’s a mistake because the first thing I see are the bleeding scratches that cover his shoulders and his chest. There’s a red mark on his stomach and a bleeding gash on his left hip, just above the waistband of his boxer-briefs.

Screwing my eyes shut, I try to block out the damage I’ve just wrought on my love. The worst is knowing that he let me do it to him. He’s strong. He could have fought me off a lot quicker than he did. Instead, he chose to take it easy on me, to not hurt me as I was hurting him, so that he didn’t scare me further. My mouth begins to water, my bottom lip trembling as the tears that constantly stalk me make their presence known again. With a monumental effort, I refuse to let them fall.

Not only am I a spiralling mess, but I’m also bringing down the man I love with me.

“Metukà shelì.” Zeke’s tone is gentle, although I can hear the hint of steel underneath that tells me I’m not going to like what he says next. “Open your eyes. Tell me who you see.” Sinking my teeth with deliberate viciousness into my lip, I concentrate on the pain it brings as I shake my head. Anything to distract me from the bolt of agony that his simple question sends straight through my heart. “Tell me. Who am I?”

The repeated command is spoken as gently as the first. His patience with me seems to be never-ending. I open my eyes, inspect his battered face, then close them again. The love that fills his expression is harder to handle than the evidence of the injuries I inflicted.

“Who. Am. I?” The gentleness is matched this time by the demand in his tone.

I’ve hurt him—not only physically, but emotionally.

Blinking back tears as they try to escape, I force my eyelids to open and regard him with more steadiness than I expected. “Zeke. You’re Zeke.”

His tongue darts out of thee corner of his mouth and licks away a drop of blood from his bleeding lip before it rolls down his chin. Nodding at me, he lets go of my arms and removes his weight from me. It’s stupid. I just attacked him for touching me, yet the second Zeke lets go of me, I jack-knife upright and wrap my arms around him. My movements take him by surprise, making him slow to hug me back. Eventually, his arms close around me and he holds me to him.

“I’m so sorry. I knew it was you—not him—but it didn’t matter. I was afraid and there was nothing I could do to make it go away.” Zeke says nothing, just holds me tighter, as I murmur my explanation. What I said to him yesterday circles my mind, resurrecting my fears that I’m going to lose him when he gets sick of all my crazy. My pleas are filled with urgency, the words a manic plea to the only person who I feel safe enough to lay bare my fears. “Please don’t leave me. I need you.”

“Sweet thing, that’s never gonna happen. Don’t give a fuck how many times you try to throw me out. You’re stuck with me.”

Lifting my head, I search his hazel eyes for doubt or evasion. I don’t find anything but unwavering love—and a devotion that I will never come close to deserving. Before I put an end to the physical distance between us and seal his commitment with a kiss, I lean forward and lick the welling blood from his busted lip. “I’m so damn sorry that I hurt you.”

“If it was anyone else, I’d be kickin’ their ass.” A wry smile curls his mouth. “You’re exempt since I love ya.”

The wink he sends my way lets me know that he’s not going to hold any hard feelings over my meltdown, this time, at least. The adrenaline that had filled me when I fought him finally deserts me at this realisation and I melt into his arms and kiss him as if my life depends on it. The cast-iron coldness that I use as a shield gives way to something much more real.

It takes a minute to recognise that I’m feeling. It’s hope. Because with Zeke’s strong arms around me and the warmth from his body heating mine, I wonder if, maybe—just maybe—there might be a way for us to come through this intact, after all?

*

“I’ll wait out here,” Zeke yells over the pulsing engine of his Harley as he drops me off at the front door of my therapist’s building. Behind him, his best friend, Slash, easily balances his heavy machine between his thighs. Noticing my attention on him, he jerks his chin in acknowledgement as my boyfriend tells me, “Can’t be fucked dealing with people this morning.”

I understand that he’s trying to honour my request for space because it’s clear he’d rather be inside.

Handing him my helmet, I wave goodbye to Zeke, then nod to Slash as I pass him. The sound of them roaring away doesn’t hit my ears until I’m safely inside the building and halfway to the elevator. Once I reach my floor, I whisper my name to the receptionist. She checks me in, then I take a seat between two girls in the waiting area. It’s unusual to see other patients in this office, so I carefully scan them for signs that they are dangerous to me. One is a bit older than me, but the other looks about my age. Truthfully, she looks like she could be my twin sister, especially when she glances my way, and I spy the same torture in her blue eyes that I see in my own whenever I accidentally catch sight of myself in a mirrored surface.

We’re both barely adults and already broken by life.

A tentative smile breaks through the devastation that clouds her features.

Her voice is breathy and unsure when she says, “Hi.”

“H-hi,” I stammer.

When I try to say something further, I end up feeling like an idiot. No other words past that initial greeting are available to my addled brain. Where I was once a confident person, I’m left with zero social skills, and even less trust in strangers. Her mere acknowledgement of my presence is enough to set my pulse pounding in my ears. I look down at my lap and stare at the mobile phone in my hands as if it’s capable of sucking me out of this building and back onto Zeke’s bike, where I feel safe and like a half-normal person.

“Who are you seeing?”

The girl’s soft voice jolts me out of my pity party.

Raising my head, I try to arrange my face into something resembles a smile. “I’m seeing Dr. Louise.”

“Cool. Me, too.” She wriggles in her seat. “What’s wrong with you?”

Bereft of words, I twirl a piece of my hair around my finger and pull it in front of my face.

What is wrong with me?

I’m poisoned by Alex.

Unable to touch my boyfriend.

Incapable of giving Slash a hug hello.

Powerless to control my reaction to unexpected noises.

Afraid of the dark and scared to be alone.

“Hey, you don’t have to tell me,”she offers when I don’t speak. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

With sightless eyes, I stare at her with my mouth open.

After physically shaking my body in my chair, I force myself to answer. “I’m not upset.”

My eyes follow her gaze down to my lap, where she looks pointedly at my white-knuckled grip on my phone. My hands are shaking, the plastic case around the device is groaning from my sustained abuse. I let it drop into my lap and massage my hands to get the blood flowing again.

“I’m here because I cut myself.”

The way she throws it out there as if it’s not a big deal shocks me out of my mute state. “Why?”

“Control. Duh.” She shrugs as she answers me. “When the screaming in my head gets too loud, I like to slice my leg with a razor blade. It’s a release, you know. All of my issues can flow free and the voice that keeps taunting me gives me a rest for a while.”

I must look like a moron, but I can’t help it.

I’m stunned.

What she says sounds familiar.

More than familiar.

“How does that work? I don’t understand.”

Licking her lips, the girl looks around us, then drops her head closer to mine. “What messed you up? My dad likes to fuck me now my mother’s gone. Cutting’s the only thing between me and the street. It gives me a way to put up with him and keep a roof over my head.” She leans closer, acting as if we’re close friends exchanging gossip. “Not that I’ve told Dr. Louise the whole story. She still thinks it’s because I get bullied at school.”

When the girl rolls her eyes at the idea of fooling Dr. Louise, I realise that I’ve met my kindred spirit.

This girl understands me when I thought no-one was capable of it. 

Crossing myself with fast movement, because I’m certain that our meeting today is God’s way of providing me with the knowledge that I need to survive what happened to me, I whisper the words I haven’t put into sound since the day I woke in the hospital with Zeke and Slash holding my hands, and my twin brother and best friend sleeping in plastic chairs at the end of my bed. “The guy that I pretended to date to make my current boyfriend jealous beat me half to death…” Trailing off, I gulp down the lump in my throat. “My dad arranged for me to marry him behind my back. I thought I could negotiate with him, but I ended up being chased through a dark carriage house, beaten, and—” A tear runs down my cheek when I make myself finish the sentence. “—raped.”

“I took you for a bit of a snob when you walked in her, but you’re hardcore.” The girl fluffs her hair and leans back in her chair. She nods as if impressed with me. “Far out.”

“Anastacia.” Dr. Louise walks into the waiting area with a clipboard in her hand. She looks down at it and then at the girl sitting next to me. “It’s your turn.”

“Hey, nice meeting you and good luck with your recovery.” The girl nudges me with her shoulder before standing. I stiffen, my breath caught in my throat while my skin flares with needles. Peering down at me, she pats her thigh as she adds. “You should look into my means of control… sounds like it’s exactly what you need.”

With an exaggerated wink, she follows Dr. Louise out of the waiting room.

Leaving me, with my mouth open and my mind whirling. I’m not sure if she looks back at me. I haven’t a clue if Dr. Louise thinks our whispered exchange is unusual. Because I don’t watch them move deeper into the building. I’m too busy searching Google for every piece of information I can find about self-harm.

Cutting to purge Alex’s poison?

It’s the perfect solution to keeping Zeke’s heart and Slash’s respect…

Chapter One

Slash 

Six years later

Pacing back and forth in the hospital room, I crush my phone in my hand. I know that I need to make the call, that I need to let Lazarus know what’s happened to his Lily, but I can’t bring myself to do it. My wife’s current condition remains unknown. The babies cut out of her body in the operating theatre were rushed away before I could see them. Nadia currently stands guard over them like their personal avenging angel. She’s made it clear, as has Cherub’s decision to name her best friend as her next of kin rather than me, that I am not welcome anywhere near them until my duchess gives me permission. 

With the babies’ emergency arrival, I’m a father of three. 

Babies. 

Plural. 

Twins. 

As in two children. 

I had no idea Cherub was carrying twins. 

Because I am a fucking failure...  

“We need to get you cleaned up.” 

The censure that has coated every word Mumma has spoken to me since I arrived back home a week ago, emaciated and half-dead, needing Hunter’s help to walk is gone. She’s pale. Tired. Pushed to breaking point by life and me. Her too-stubborn son. With worry and fear etched in her face, my mother’s aged a decade in the past two hours. 

I know how she feels. 

Life keeps on delivering uppercuts without allowing any of us time to heal from them. 

I thought I was over the worst. 

Cherub had signed the divorce papers. 

My tech officer was in the process of removing me from my son’s birth certificate. 

Everything was planned out. My exit from their lives. Lazarus’ implementation as my replacement. The plan to throw myself at the Trinity’s mercy in exchange for clemency for my wife and her children was scheduled. All I had to do was make through another two days without breaking, and everyone would be safe. 

Per usual, I failed. 

Spying the pain in Cherub’s eyes at dinner broke me. 

Her need to protect us all was driving her to risk her health. 

I’d tried to hold out, to ignore the urge to follow her upstairs. 

My resolve had lasted for fifteen minutes before I gave in. 

Instead of offering her comfort, I’d made things worse. Taken out my frustrations on the woman I love, then walked away—for the umpteenth time. She deserved better than to collapse in my arms, yet here we are. I’m still her legal husband while the man she needs continues to loiter in the darkness as he works hard to secure the world for his little family. 

The family that should’ve been mine. 

“Let me take that bag from you,” Dad’s tone is gruff when he holds his hand out to me. I look down to find his focus locked on the clear plastic sack that I’m clutching to my bloodstained chest. It’s filled with my duchess’ belongings, clothes that were cut from her body and the jewels she wears. “You’re covered in blood, son... let me get you cleaned up, like your mumma said.” 

A lump wedges in my throat as I take in the damp scrubs I’m wearing. The top is plastered to my torso while the pants have handprints on them. On the floor next to me is me is another clear plastic bag. This one contains the clothing my wife bled over as I held her through the first stage of her ordeal. From the garden, through the house to my Rover, during the crazy drive to the hospital with Toker at the wheel, and inside the ED. For only God knows how many minutes, my duchess remained unconscious and bleeding. 

She’s missed the birth of all three of her children. 

The worst part is this was her sole opportunity to witness the miracle of life up-close. 

I made the decision that stripped her of the chance to carry another baby. 

And I’d do it again without hesitation because it saved her life.  

My hands are tacky to the touch when I relinquish the bag and my phone to my father. Once I’m no longer have them to occupy my fingers, a sense of urgency overtakes me. The need to remove the signs of my wife’s dance with death from my body sends me spiralling as I rip the flimsy blue shirt down the middle and tear it from my chest. I trip over the pants when they get caught on my paper-covered boots. Sent stumbling, the only reason I avoid face-planting on the linoleum floor is Dad’s strong grip on my shoulders. 

“Sit down, son.” 

His concern is my undoing. 

I fold like a deckchair.

My arse hits the floor. I huddle into a ball, wrapping my arms around my calves with my thighs pulled hard to my chest. Mumma stoops low in front of me, her fingers making quick work of my laces before she pulls off my boots. Like she used to whenever I vomited over myself as a kid, she taps my knee, then tugs my scrubs off with efficient movements once I’ve straightened my limb, one leg at a time. 

Clad in only my bloodied boxers, I watch my mother stuff the bloody clothes into an empty rubbish bag. On her other side is a satchel. It’s stuffed full, a magic rucksack filled with a change of clothes. Item by item, Mumma extracts a new outfit for me. After accepting my cut from her, my father runs his hand over the unbandaged side of my head, then he pats my shoulder. 

Dad disappears into the attached bathroom. 

Water starts running.  

“Lukewarm only, Chris. Damp paper towel. No soap. You don’t wanna make it congeal,” Mumma advises him. With a satisfied nod, she directs her attention back to me. “You have to get up, Carter. Be strong. Face the mistakes you’ve made and start settin’ things right.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Pfft.” Her empathy evaporates, her palm connecting with my cheek a second later. Numb to the core, I don’t register to the sting radiating through my face until she strikes me a second time. “I raised yer to be a better man than ’tis—so ye either start doin’ what needs ta be done or ye get gone.” Mumma clicks her fingers to emphasise the final two words. When I only stare at her blankly, her noisy exhale is filled with frustration and heartbreak. “I’ve already lost one son, I won’t sit idly by while I lose another.” 

It’s a low blow. 

To remind me of my dead brother. 

The one the baby Bebe forced into my life is named after. 

Still, it’s no less than what I deserve. 

“Aye, quit the pity party,” Mumma bites out. Her eyes flash as she glares at me. The scar across her cheek deepens when her expression grows sterner. “Yer sins are no greater than anyone else’s. Yer losses ain’t superior neither. The quicker ye get that through yer head, tha better.” 

The home truth has been a long-time coming. 

That doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. 

I tried to kill myself. 

Literally held a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. 

If I hadn’t been drunker than drunk, I would’ve been successful. 

Whether I like it or not, I’ve been given a second chance at life. 

The time has come to make it count... one way or another. 

Rather than responding verbally, I give my mother what she wants. My compliance. I scoop the torn material from the floor, push back to my feet, and stomp into the bathroom. The sight of my dad hunched over the small sink, scrubbing Cherub’s blood from my cut, hits hard. In an instant, I’ve overcome by a flashback to her losing consciousness in the garden. 

It was akin to a car crash. 

She was the one in trouble, yet my life flashed in front of my eyes. My half-arsed plea could’ve been the final thing I ever said to her. I have no idea why she was even outside—I only followed her because Nadia had made it clear throughout the day that Cherub was dealing with cramps and pain. I was reeling with guilt over my behaviour upstairs. When my wife had headed outside, with misery on her face, and her delicate stride hitched and lopsided, I’d trailed her like the lovelorn loser Toker has accused me of being, more than once, throughout the past week and a half. Just in time to watch my world collapse seconds after she agreed to give me another shot. 

I caught my duchess before she hit the ground. 

Carried her inside.

Blood dripping the entire way. 

The rush to get Cherub to the hospital was chaotic. 

Minutes of mayhem in the ED. The diagnosis of placental abruption requiring an emergency caesarean. I was lucky enough to attend the twins’ birth, although I was unable to hold them before they were rushed to the NICU. As the surgical team struggled to stop my wife haemorrhaging, I was summarily evicted from the OR. Wearing bloodstained scrubs, a hair net that resembled a flimsy shower cap, and covers over my boots, my final glimpse of Cherub was through the heavy double doors before they swung shut and blocked her from my view.  

“Slash.” My father curls his fingers over my shoulders and lightly shakes me. “Your brothers have brought reinforcements. You needa get dressed and start organisin’ things.” 

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that security is Toker’s responsibility. 

I stop myself. 

In the same way that it’s time to start living again, it’s also time to stand up as president. 

The myriad ways I’ve fucked up are piled too high to count. Languishing in my guilt and failure has proven useless. I must take the steps to fix the things I’ve allowed to fall by the wayside. Solutions were once my forte. I’m not sure when that changed. 

If I’m honest, my world was rattled when Venom died. 

Then, it was pitched on its head when he returned as Lazarus. 

My rival for Cherub’s heart is gaining a reputation in the underworld. His moniker stalks me at every turn—highlighting my failings as we rush toward an inevitable showdown over my wife’s heart. The conflict between us is of my making. Where Lazarus has offered a truce, I’ve given him nothing in return. He saved my life. I threw that back in his face. My pride is dented. The Saviour complex I once cultivated has turned into a poisoned chalice. It’s a millstone around my neck, goading me with my shortcomings at the same time as Lazarus is making his mark.  

A clear path has been driven through the circle of soldiers surrounding the Maddison clan’s new boss, Seamus St. James, all the way to his now-deceased youngest son. You don’t need to be a math genius capable of calculating odds down to four decimal places in your head to know that the next target will be Hugh. The bodies are piling up. My club is taking the blame. Whenever the Australasian guild of the Trinity demands answers from us, I’m able to denounce our involvement without lying. 

Because Lazarus has a list and he’s working through it without my input... 

In the middle of that, he found time to save me from my demons and suggest we pull together. I want to meet him halfway. To put my wife’s happiness first. But I didn’t believe that I was capable of it. Facing Cherub is impossible. My failings are too numerous to list. The things I’ve done to her are despicable. I’d kill anyone else for the same crimes, yet my best friend thinks she’ll forgive me if I ask her. 

Man up, admit my mistakes, make amends...

Life is only that easy when you walk through it with impunity like he does. 

I’m not cut from the same cloth. 

Lazarus died to save her. 

I tried to kill myself to avoid loving her. 

“Son,” Dad urges me a second time. “You needa get dressed.” 

On shaky legs, I do as I’m told. Once my fresh jeans are buttoned, I accept my clean and dry cut from Dad and slide it over my shoulders. Following him out into the hospital room we’ve been told to wait inside, I work hard to keep my breathing from giving away my panic. Game face in place, shoulders back, I do my best to hide my distress over Cherub’s condition as I begin to mentally catalogue the men we’ll need to adequately secure the hospital, my wife’s room, and the NICU. 

Before I can open my mouth, I’m met with a fist to the face. My head snaps back. A flare of pain sears through my chin and into my cheekbone, then clanging erupts in my ears. As I fight to stay conscious, a pair of multicoloured eyes glare at me. A second impact splits my already damaged cheekbone open again. 

This time, the lights go out before I can stop them. 

When I come to, the same gaze locks with mine. 

Lazarus lifts his top lip into a snarl. 

Moves to pin me to the floor with his boot against my throat. 

Hunter’s arm curls around his neck. My younger brother drags my ex-best friend away from me before he can stomp me into a permanent sleep. I push upright, shaking my head when stars erupt behind my eyes. Blood runs down my face, the wound carved in my skull reopened by his punch. Working my jaw open and closed, I check that it’s not broken. Satisfied that I’m able to speak, I wobble back to my feet. 

“Thought we were gonna pull together.” 

“Changed my mind,” he jeers. “I don’t negotiate with cowards.” 

We circle each other, too much water under the bridge to settle our rage peacefully, even in this time of crisis. I take in his perfectly tailored black suit. He sneers at the president’s patch sewn on my lapel. Round and round we go, the other people in the room silent observers to a showdown that’s been a year—a lifetime—in the making. It was temporary thwarted by my attempt to end my life and his offer of a truce, but old animosities have risen to the surface, and they can’t be ignored any longer. 

My temper sparks as I listen to his steady breathing. 

The unblinking reproach in his expression is infuriating. 

He believes that I’m a lost cause. 

No longer my wife’s hero. 

Unworthy of being his friend. 

“I heard what you said to her,” the arsehole formerly known as Venom proclaims in a tone that I know well. He might be outwardly calm, but he’s furious beneath the benign façade. I sniff, then swipe at the blood that runs down my cheek. Cocking my head to one side, I raise my eyebrows in a request for him to elaborate. “The bullshit you said to her. Your cowardice... that could’ve been one of the last things she heard.” As Lazarus crushes the front of my t-shirt in his fist, I let him shake me. His summary is right—I unleashed the worst of my weakness on my wife minutes before she haemorrhaged. “Guess you’ll be happy to learn the twins are mine. One less reason for the suicidal National president to stay alive. Two less people you’ll disappoint when you eventually take the easy way out like the pathetic prick you are.” 

Mumma gasps as Lazarus spills my secret shame for all to hear. 

Enraged by his overstep, I snarl, “Bullshit.” 

“Did the test myself.” Hunter scoffs as he moves from behind Lazarus. My brother crosses his arms over his chest and smirks. “Ain’t a drop of Hudson blood in their veins. Thank fuck.” 

“Nah...” I ignore my brother to rail on Lazarus. “That’s where you’re wrong.” It kills me to admit this out loud in front of my parents, but I forge on anyway. “I might’a lost sight of things for a minute, tried to take the easy way out like you said, but I’ve got my head on straight now. They’re all Hudsons. The twins. Cherub. Same as Garrett—” 

“The son—” Lazarus cuts me off before I can finish verbalising my claim on my wife and kids. “—you refused to acknowledge for the first three months of his life, that Garrett?” 

“Listen.” I jab Lazarus in the chest, taking out the flare of remorse that sets my gut roiling as I realise that I just said my son’s name for the first time on the man in front of me, instead of turning it inward. The arrogant prick grins wide, unperturbed by my hostility. This side of him is new, he’d normally be raging at this point. Instead, Lazarus is visibly amused by my floundering, the anger he feels banked behind a wall of control that I never suspected he possessed. “You left. I stayed. She’s my wife. Those are my kids.” Another jab. “You can head back into the shadows to keep playin’ the Adjudicator’s bitch boy… ’cause you ain’t welcome here.” 

“Well, actually—” Hunter’s interjection is interrupted by the door being opened. 

Nadia storms inside, pushing a pram. “Look what the cat dragged in... a not-so-dead somnophiliac and the least-likeliest to be voted Dad of the Year.” 

Behind her, Sander limps into the hospital room, and the remaining Mayberry brothers follow him. My prospect comes to stand with me as Wyatt’s disbelief at encountering a real-life ghost is tempered by his oath to have my back. My wife’s twin freezes, mouth open, caught between shock and horror at the sight of his resurrected lifelong friend. Cherub’s youngest brother nods to himself, offers Lazarus a fist bump that is slowly reciprocated, then he pops a piece of gum into his mouth and leans against the wall next to Hunter. 

“This is gonna be good,” Nate comments. 

My younger brother laughs at him. 

Everett’s reaction is even stranger. 

“Goddamnit.” He shakes his head as he scoffs, “Fuckin’ figured you’d come see me before anyone else.” 

“A thank you will suffice,” Lazarus tells him. “And we have a date in the near future, don’t you worry, brother.” 

“Pfft... brother. It’s too late for that.” 

With a dismissive grunt, Everett spins on his heel and ambles lopsidedly away. We all watch him leave, various levels of unease on our faces. It’s clear that Lazarus and the middle Mayberry sibling are actively hostile to each other, but none of us fully understand why. For years, they’ve been thick as thieves. If anyone was going to forgive Venom for faking his death, I thought it’d be Everett. 

Guess I was wrong. 

“Mumma,” I venture in a low voice when my gaze locks with my mother’s. “I’m sorry.”

“No interested in your apologies, Carter.” 

After I level a pleading look her way, Mumma turns her back on me. She mutters under her breath in Gaelic as she moves to stand with my father. I can’t meet my dad’s eyes when he takes hold of my shirt and pulls me close. 

His breath fans over my fan when he says, “Never been more disappointed in you than I am in this moment. You weren’t raised to give up, weren’t raised to hurt your mumma or your wife like this. I could cut you slack over the little man, give you time to adjust, but suicide... fuck me, son. It never needed to get to that point. All you had to do was swallow your goddamned pride.” 

“I know.”

Dad shakes his head, ready to tear further strips off me, when Nadia pushes her way between us. Lazarus has been watching our interaction with an impenetrable look that turns into a frown as she comes up behind him and taps him on the shoulder. He moves to face her, recoiling a moment later when she punches him in the throat. The pompous prick stumbles, clutching at his neck while he makes a choking sound. 

“You broke your promise.” When Lazarus tries to speak, Nadia pokes him in the chest. “If you abandon her again without an explanation, I’ll make it permanent—a marshmallow corpse fire that they see in space.” 

I laugh when confusion clouds his eyes. 

Apparently, he isn’t as acquainted with her go-to threat as I am. 

The crazy blonde rounds on me. In her green gaze, the tightness stiffening her shoulders, I see pain and fear. Feelings she wants to share. As if to prove my point, Nadia drives the sharp toe of her boot into my shin. She kicks me in the opposite knee, hyper-extending my joint until I’m forced to instinctively hunch forward. Emanating unadulterated rage, she grabs a fistful of my collar and yanks my head closer to hers. 

“If you don’t step up, motherfucker, so help me... I’ll torture you just like you’ve tortured her with your bullshit, then I’ll build a pyre, and roast marshmallows over your corpse too.” 

“Nads.” I use the steadiest tone I can manage as I attempt to reason with my wife’s lunatic of a best friend. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. My bullshit is done—I’m gonna step up.” 

“Yeah.” She twists her hand, tightening the grip until she’s choking me. “Prove it.” 

“Anythin’—” I bend my knees to loosen the material constricting my breathing. “—Tell me what you want.” The malicious gleam in her eyes doesn’t bode well for me, and my voice comes close to hitting falsetto as Nadia screws her hand to increase the pressure. “Jesus. Fuck. Tell me what I have to do to prove it.” 

She chuckles, then bops me hard on the end of the nose with the index finger of her other hand. “Say, Garrett.” 

My knees are shaking as the awkward position she has me in starts to take its toll. “Garrett.” 

“Say, my son.” 

“My son.” 

“Mumma C.” Nadia uses my mother’s club name to gain her attention. “Bring the little man here.” 

Once my mother brings the pram closer, I figure out their next move when she loosens the straps securing my son. Letting go of my shirt, Nadia lifts him out with movements that speak of experience. An indication of an involvement with my son that I haven’t had. When that realisation stabs me in the heart, the weakness in my legs has nothing to do with Nadia’s overprotectiveness of my wife and her kids. 

It’s fear. 

Pure fear. 

“Prove it, Slash.” Nadia passes the baby to me. “Hold your son.” 

I swallow deep. 

Look down at my hands. 

Picture them around Jenna’s throat. 

Visualise the blood of my many victims.

See the gun I pressed to my head. 

Feel the trigger give under my finger. 

I unconsciously take a step backward. My back comes up against something solid. I glance over my shoulder. Lazarus. He’s standing behind me, on my six, offering me silent support as I face my biggest fear head on. 

“He’s a good-lookin’ kid,” he remarks. His tone is all Venom when he breaks the tension with a joke. “Gets it from his seanmhair.” My mother chuckles at his mention of Garrett’s grandma, her mood lightening quickly. In a move that can’t be seen by anyone else, he nudges my shoulder with his. “Let me introduce you.” 

Nodding, I fold my arms awkwardly, uncertain what to do with them. After I mimic Nadia’s posture, I hold my breath while she transfers my son over to me. His weight is more than I expected. It makes me frown as my brain tries to decipher how his tiny body can create this kind of heaviness. Nothing fits. The numbers don’t work. Until it dawns on me that the mass is mental, not physical. 

This is the first time I’ve held a baby since I tried to revive my dead son twelve years ago. 

“He’s special.” Lazarus swipes a finger down my son’s cheek, and he chuckles when the baby wraps his first around it. “Likes to throw his weight around, just like his namesake used to.” There is a fierce love in my best friend’s gaze as he peers down at Garrett. Their bond is visceral, corporeal, a living and breathing connection that fills me with jealousy almost as quickly as it settles my nerves. “Slash... meet Christopher Garrett Hudson. He’s been waiting for you to show up.” 

“Christ-opher Ga-rrett,” I repeat after Lazarus in a voice that cracks on each syllable. “Hudson.” 

As everyone watches us, my emotions spill over. A choked sound erupts from my mouth. Lazarus’ throat works. He widens his stance as he brushes his fingertips over my son’s forehead. I spy the same memories in his eyes as the ones currently cascading through me. The four of us. The car barrelling toward us. The front end bouncing over the kerb. Topher pushing me, Zeke, and Benny out of the way. He took the full brunt of the impact. The sound, a crunch really, was brutal. Screams filled my ears—they were mine, not my big brother’s. 

Topher died on impact. 

Underneath the vehicle that killed him. 

The suit-wearing man, once my best friend, the person who saved my life a week ago, is basically a stranger at this point. It doesn’t feel that way when Lazarus wraps his arm around my shoulders. He pulls me close. I lean on him. My son sighs as he settles into my arms. We exhale in unison, the tension that’s ratcheted around us since he greeted me with an uppercut dissipating as we find a temporary truce in the midst of our battle to share my wife’s heart. 

“You’ve done good, brother,’ he murmurs. 

For a moment, it feels like old times. 

Good times. 

And that’s the sight that greets Cherub when she’s wheeled into her private room. 

She’s propped up against the slightly raised backrest of her bed. 

Her hair is a mess, a blonde halo around her head. 

The cannula under her nose is loud in the eerie quiet that dawns. 

Pale, eyes bloodshot, my duchess looks like she’s been to war. 

In some ways, she has... for years at this point.

“Lazarus.” Her whispered acknowledgement of the man standing next to me is full of love. “You came.” He leaves my side to follow her bed when she’s wheeled to the head of the room. Reality smacks me upside the head, harder than Lazarus’ fist ever could, when she looks past me. I feel her dismissal. It’s a knife to my heart. Lost to my self-inflicted agony, I strain to hear Cherub’s next words. “I pressed the scalpel. I called your name. Did it work?” 

Her question doesn’t make any sense.

“It worked, sweet thing.” Linking his fingers through hers, Lazarus brushes his mouth over her forehead. I scan the people watching us—my parents, Cherub’s brothers, Hunter, and Nadia—as they all seem to melt over the show of affection between my wife and her first love. “I was in the air, but I came as soon as I landed.” 

“Good.” When my son makes a sound, I peer down at him. His eyes, identical to mine, are scanning my face with clear curiosity. The sight captivates me, so much so that I barely hear my wife when she murmurs, “I’m glad you’re here.”  

Nadia smacks me in the back. 

Lifting my head, my gaze hungrily roams my duchess’ face as she repeats, “I’m glad you’re here.” 

My voice cracks when I reply, “M-me, too, baby.” 

Despite the invitation in her eyes, I can’t make my feet carry me any closer to her. Not while I’m still battling to reconcile my actions over the past months with the future I’m holding in my arms. I’ve let my son down. Hurt my wife multiple times. It feels like the height of hypocrisy to expect her to overlook my sins and take me back into her heart just because I asked. 

Yet, the love in her tired expression gives me hope that she will. 

Eventually. 

“Slash,” My rival for Cherub’s heart says my name in a tight voice. “Bring the little man to his imma.” The colour that floods my duchess’ cheeks when he uses the Hebrew word for mummy tells me that it is a common occurrence—one that she enjoys. “She needs him.” 

On unsteady legs, I do as I’m told. It’s obvious that Cherub doesn’t have the energy to hold our son, so I bend low and balance his weight in my arms. Once I have Garrett angled within her reach, she strokes his cheek and lets out what sounds like a sigh of relief that comes from the depths of her soul when he blinks up at her before snagging a fistful of her knotted hair. 

“The babies?” 

“They’re in the NICU,” I tell my wife. It’s the abbreviated version of a truth I don’t want to deliver. The decision I made was urgent, but it’s not going to sit well with Cherub. Still, I don’t skip a beat as I continue, “Healthy, but needin’ some extra attention.” 

“Pair o’ fighters like their mumma.” My mother lays her hand on the middle of my back as she comes to stand next to me. “A baby boy and a baby girl, mo ulaidh bheag... you were extra busy growing two babies.” 

Across the room, I see Sander’s eyes widen. 

Seems I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know Cherub was carrying twins. 

The elephant in the room grows to epic proportions, and it’s Nate who finally poses the question that’s on the tip of almost everyone’s tongue. “So, Venom... you faked your death?”  

Silence dawns. 

My wife bites down on her bottom lip. In unison, Lazarus and I brush our fingers over the flesh to make her release it before she can bleed unnecessarily. Her attention flits between the two of us, then she runs out of energy in the next instant. Pale faced and slack-lipped, her eyes roll back in her head. Lazarus hooks his arm around her neck to protect her from harm. 

“Fuck.” I hit the nurse call button as my duchess slumps against her pillow. 

“It’s normal.” Mumma pats my back. “She’s exhausted.” 

My mind speeds at a hundred miles a minute as I watch everyone rally around my wife. 

Lazarus smooths her hair from her shoulder, then takes hold of her hand. Hunter slides a chair over to him, and he sinks into it. Sander urges his younger brothers toward the exit while Nadia checks Cherub’s vitals, engaging the pressure cuff around her arm, then tapping away on the tablet that contains my wife’s chart. As a unit, my parents move Garrett’s pram closer to me. An uneasiness filters through me as I witness everyone else jumping into action while I’m frozen to the spot with my son clutched to my chest. 

I’m out of my depth. 

My head’s under water, and I don’t know if I have the strength to kick off the bottom. 

“Sit,” Hunter tells me as he carries the other visitor’s chair in my direction. “I’ll have someone bring you a coffee.” 

“We can take Garrett?” Nadia offers. “I’ll sleep in Cherub’s bed so he can stay in his crib.” 

“No.” I shake my head once I’m seated. “He’s stayin’ with me—” Lazarus stiffens, and I amend my statement. “Us. We’ll look after him tonight.” 

“What about the twins?” Dad asks. “The hospital is surrounded by security, and we have brothers on the entrances to the NICU, but someone should be with them... a parent should be with them.” 

A parent... 

Hunter’s earlier confirmation that Lazarus is their biological father rattles around my head. 

I wish they were mine. 

It’s an uncomfortable to truth to acknowledge when I’m holding Garrett. He is Cherub’s son as much as the twins are, yet I can’t deny the pain I feel over the decision I made after Cherub was wheeled into surgery to stem the uncontrollable haemorrhaging she suffered post-caesarean section. My chance to have a biological child with my wife has been stolen from me. 

“Anna listed me as her medical executor,” Nadia announces. I exchange a narrow-eyed look with my rival that morphs into a scowl when he inclines his head to confirm her claim. “I’ll stay with them until she allows you two boneheads access.” 

“Perfect.” Mumma soft claps her hands together. “I’ll have Torin bring his things.” The Shamrocks’ newest prospect is a firm favourite of my mother’s since he goes out of his way to treat her like a queen. The others normally concentrateonf sucking up to the old timers for approval instead of taking the time to understand that the old ladies hold a lot of sway within the ranks. “A portable cot. His bottle warmer. The nappy bag.” 

While I try to work out why a baby needs so much for one night, Lazarus takes it in stride. He smiles at Mumma, and she grins back at him. His duplicity appears to have been swept under the carpet without comment. Everyone’s just accepted that Venom is alive, even if he’s wearing suits, acting like a totally new man, and sounds completely different, without question. 

I’m floundering. 

He’s thriving. 

It’s a turnabout I never saw coming. 

“Don’t forget the little man’s stuffed phoenix. He sleeps with it every night.” 

My mother laughs. “It makes sense now.” 

She directs a pointed look at the new ink covering Lazarus’ throat. It’s a phoenix—apparently connected to the toy my son sleeps with. Another surge of jealousy rushes through me. He’s been around, bonding with Garrett and spending time with my wife in my absence. 

I’ve missed so much. 

Mostly be my choice. 

“You’ve been around a lot longer than I initially suspected,” Dad comments.

“Months,” he admits to my parents. 

Mumma is speechless. 

A circumstance as rare as it is concerning. 

Intent of getting back to the twins, Nadia shoos my parents out of the hospital room. 

As soon as we’re alone, the tension between me and Lazarus returns. 

He peers at me over my wife’s bed. 

I keep my gaze fixed on his, despite my preference to concentrate on my wife and son. 

It helps me pretend that he doesn’t exist. 

“This could be our life,” Lazarus tells me. 

“What could?” 

“This—” Lazarus points at me, then Cherub, then at himself. “—Two men loving one fierce woman. Raising our kids under the one roof. Building a sanctuary for our family in a world of chaos.” 

This time, I’m the one rendered speechless. 

It couldn’t possibly be that easy, could it?

“How?” 

“By putting her first,” he replies in a tone that makes me feel an inch tall. “Before our egos. Before our ambition. Before any-fuckin’-thing. Lily, and Garrett, and the twins... that’s it. They’re all that matters. Everything else is gravy.” 

“I want...” As I start to voice my protest to his overly simplified explanation, it dies. My selfishness was almost terminal. I brush my palm over my bandaged head, the tenderness a reminder I heed, then I nod and hold out my hand. “You’re right. My duchess and the babies. That’s all that matters.” 

“Truce.” Lazarus states as he crushes my fingers in an iron grip. 

I leverage his arm, up then down, with solemn formality. He emits a pained hiss, and I remember that he was shot the same night that I attempted to kill myself. The reminder adds an edge to my voice when I say, “Truce.”