His Pretty Little Burden (Kids of The District, #4)

by Nicci Harris

A torrent of pain blazes through my lower back, and I cry out, rolling over to get away from the cause, but it's inside me. In my mind, I know it's happening inside me. No matter how hard I fight to get away from the perpetual stabbing at my spine, it stalks along in my wake, like a man hovering over my crippling body with a knife, plunging it into my back. There is no such man.

I reach for my core and bring my hand back. The sight of strings of blood drags another scream from me. As I wail at the viscous rouge fluid webbing my fingers, Clay pushes my hand from view. He cups my cheeks, directing my pooling eyes to his piercing blue orbs, a stark sight amidst the dread blurring my vision. "Don't look, Fawn." My name. Don’t look. The combination of those words twists my heart.

"Goddamn it, Fawn! Fuck, I've got you. Breathe for me. Breathe." Blinded by the pain, I squeeze my eyes shut, panting, and howling through the agony, the immense pressure. My hands fist. My nails stab my palms. And I can’t control the tightening of my muscles.

Then I feel the swelling inside me drop. Leave me. And the pain ebbs to a dull throb. The finality of it... of that passing sensation, of less pain, hurts so much more.

"This is the last thing, Fawn. I swear it! The last thing. I will drag God himself to Hell before I let you hurt again."

Fourteen weeks of delicately constructed life reduced to a blob, a crimson mass. I didn’t want him anyway... Clay's warm hand pushes my wet hair from my face as the warm spray soaks us, mingling with the blood puddling around our bodies. I didn't want him anyway... Clay presses his lips to my forehead. "It's okay, sweet girl. Everything is going to be okay." I didn't want him anyway.

Bad things come in threes. Her suicide: number one. His murder: number two. My miscarriage: number three.

Then there is just him. With my eyes still shut, my mind balancing on the cusp of consciousness, I feel his fingertips slide across my forehead. The soft scent of his cologne, the earthy musk of his skin, and the subtle aromatics of cigar smoke fill the room with his presence. His touch trails down my cheek, igniting my skin. After he traces the shell of my ear, he tucks a piece of hair neatly behind it. The sedative is strong as it drags my mind back. And. Forth. From blackness. To his gentle strokes. And back again. His fingers find me in the abyss once more. They caress down the side of my face, replaced quickly by his knuckles continuing to stroke. His thumb flicks out to run the course of my lower lip, and his touch is so... chaste. I love him. It’s not a small, blooming love. It’s explosive. Tremendous. And devastating. His touch burns with this unrequited love.

With my eyes still closed, I mumble, “You have a family, Sir.” My mouth strains around each word while my mind refuses to settle on a state of consciousness. “You say you weren’t home, that you didn’t grow up with them, and that is your excuse for...” I don’t know if I’m even talking aloud or if I’m dreaming this verbal heave of insight. I chuckle. “Straight lines and pressed shirts and three meals a day. No cake without dinner. Don’t say sorry unless you mean it. Conventions. And, yes, Sir. No, Sir... but what I think, Sir, is that you don’t want a home because you don’t know who you are outside of business. You don’t want to have a family around because you don't know how to behave unless it’s Big Mafia Boss Butcher. Sir, you're institutionalised. You don’t know how to be... just Clay... just, iddy-biddy Clay Butcher.” I hum my amusement again, still talking in a kind of sleep and drug-induced stupor. “Xander wants to impress you, ya know? He is dying to be noticed by you. Do you see him? I see him trying so hard... I think those bruises, the fights, they are for you. To get you to notice... I see myself in him. I know what it’s like to beg for attention. I have spent my whole life trying to get noticed and no one did until I got pregnant with an important man’s grandson and now... You don’t appreciate what that means, Sir... to a girl like me. I was hoping my dad would notice me... I was hoping he would take me, too, ya know? Take us.” Only some words reach my tongue, t...

And if I didn’t owe my brothers so much for my absence, perhaps I would have taken you and the baby and left the city, little deer. Given you everything that a beautiful, resilient girl like you deserves from a man like me who has it to give. Perhaps I would have left this life for you. Been comfortable, being comfortable. With you. And him. Perhaps... but we’ll never know.”

There is a bit of pain. No more than my monthly period. No lingering reminder of the baby. Just nothing. No Benji. No baby. Both are just gone.

When I stepped through that gate two weeks ago, I had no idea what would become of me. I never knew who he would become to me. I might have avoided falling, drowning in him, tumbling helplessly in love with the most unattainable man in the world. What right does a girl like me have to be anywhere near a man like Clay Butcher, anyway? I know what it was... a sense of responsibility and pity on his part that tethered us together. That and my pretty body. And since love can’t be found in pretty things alone but in lasting connections—ours washed out in the shower—it is only a matter of time before he casts me aside like everyone else does. I won’t be cast aside—I’ll step aside.

I hear her sigh. “You can bring her home, you know? The doctor said she doesn’t need to be here.” “We will leave soon.” “She’ll be more comfortable in your bed.” “I doubt that.” “Clay,” she drawls, his name soaring with sad understanding through the air. "It wasn’t anything you did⁠—" “That’s enough.” My throat tightens. Does he blame himself for my miscarriage? It didn’t even cross my mind that he may harbour guilt, and for what?

“Jasmine has packed a suitcase for her,” he says, and I suck a sharp breath in, feeling sadness like a swamp rising around my feet. I was going to leave anyway, so it’s good he has made this easier. It’s really fucking convenient, actually. Now I don’t even need to pretend I am here for any reason other than the pregnancy... I don’t need to pretend...

I’m not sure if my heart will find its way back on the same tracks when he is gone. Forever hurtling through the wasteland inside me where he used to reside. A glimpse of affection—at everything.

“It’s only a matter of time before you tell me to leave. Why can’t we just get it over with?” He rises to his feet in one smooth movement, and I hold my breath as he approaches me with those powerful, measured steps. “I won’t be asking you to leave.” “So...” A sad derisive laugh breaks from my lips. “You’re married to the business, Sir. Not to mention literally married. What am I?” His knuckles stroke lines down my cheek, and I close my eyes to fall further into the intensity of that sensation. “You belong to me, sweet girl.” Belong.

“I won’t survive the day you drop me, Sir, because my entire world is starting to centre around you, and I’m fucking scared that I’ll have nothing left inside me once you pull yourself out! So, tell me. Tell me why! Why me!”

“Do you remember what you said to me when you were sedated, sweet girl? The way you mocked me.” I swallow down the lump that forms as his eyes shift dangerously over my face. “I told you that if you didn’t like something, to use your voice. You did. And you were right. I don’t know who I am outside of this business. I’ve spent my whole life on one path, with one destination. I have known exactly what to do and where to be. I knew every turn.” His brilliant blue gaze softens, and I see him... I see Clay. “Fawn. Why you? Because when I’m with you, my sweet girl, I’m lost. And I quite enjoy that.”

Flashing behind my eyes is the image of Clay Butcher purchasing tampons like he does stocks or illegal weapons, with effortless authority. Well researched. Tested. Measured.

Worrying my bottom lip, I peer back up at him, meeting the blue gaze of the most powerful man in the city, maybe the country. “You brought me tampons, Sir?” "Pads, actually." My hands meet my face as my cheeks engulf in fire, but he doesn’t allow me to dwell, saying, “You will let me take care of you how I see fit. That isn’t a request.”

My abdomen coils and throbs, never letting up with the reminder I’m having my period for the first time in months.

As I look down at Clay’s hand on my thigh, his fingers dipping into my skin in a gentle, commanding hold, I reach for happiness, for excitement. I remember wanting this moment, wanting to feel someone strong and dependable put their hand on my thigh. An indication the relationship is real. It is real. I wish I could appreciate it more but the swing of my mood only sways from sad to guilt and back again.

“Well, yeah. I do. But it doesn’t scream Clay Butcher. It actually looks like it might be comfortable—shock horror. Quick get the kids into the shelter because the world must be coming to an end."

He steps from the car and the door closes on his shadow. It's suddenly quiet. And even a metal sheet separating us fills me with an urgency to get out and into the same air as him.

“This is Julia. She will make you anything you wish to eat...” He pauses and turns that tall, powerful physique to face me. “Even cake, little deer. Anything you want.” “Fuck.” I half-smile. “If I’d known the baby was keeping cake from me, I would have...” I trail off. The joke burns my tongue. My smile slips. “Too soon.”

“Humour is how you deflect, but it’s just as revealing as if you were to cry. I see you, sweet girl. Whatever you need to say or feel will not be judged. By anyone... if they wish to keep all their fingers.” My heart grows as his words inflate it with that hopefulness I fear. But I don’t want to take a pin to my ballooned heart today. I think I’ll let it float—full of him—for a while. “Was that you deflecting your affections, Sir? With maiming fingers?” “Such a sweet question. No,” he states, walking towards a wooden door with carvings of a grand Marri tree. “It was a very clear warning for my staff.”

The baby was Benji’s. No butterflies at all. I haven’t felt a single flutter since before writhing in pain on the bathroom floor. Butterflies, dead. Benji, dead. Baby, dead.

“I was going to keep him,” I say, opening my eyes and sitting up to find him pulling a chair over to the bathtub. He is still in his neat pants but has lost the tie and jacket. His shirt unbuttoned and casual, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing cords of veins, curves of muscles, and scratch marks from when I clawed him in the shower. “I know, sweet girl.” He picks up a loofa and lathers it with soap scented like coconut before brushing it gently down my shoulders and chest. I shake my head in confusion. “How did you know, Sir? I didn’t even know.” “You knew.” He’s right. I did.

My eyes bat close, and I melt beneath the meticulous hands of the most intense, dangerous, and beautiful man I have ever met.

“When I say you belong to me and that I will take care of you, this is what I mean. You are not a stray. You are owned. I warned you once to tell me to stop. I warned you what it meant to belong to me... True, I didn’t plan on keeping you then. I do now. There will be times when you hate me. For what I have to do. I am sure of it. That will change nothing between us. I want you to know that if you try to leave, I will hunt you down. I want you to find comfort in the fact that you have no choice. You are mine. Because ever since I laid eyes on you, sweet girl, that is the only place they have wanted to be.”

It must be intoxicating not being the victim. I swallow hard. “I wish I was a dangerous person.” A grin coasts across his lips. “My affections for you make you the most dangerous girl in the country,” he states seriously, and I exhale, a flitter of contentment moving into my chest, finding comfort in his darkness.

I remember my mother talking about reincarnation. About how we turn into a vibrant, uninhibited butterfly after this harsh existence as a weak, humble caterpillar. I pretended my mother was a butterfly the day she shot herself. But I don’t want to wait until I am dead to experience my own reincarnation. I want it right now. In a cocoon of Clay Butcher. I hope that in my second life, I am a monarch butterfly. They are graceful. Beautiful. And poisonous.

"I don't need your reassurances, sweet girl. You fell from the bed writhing in pain." I force a small smile. "Can't fall off the floor." He continues, unamused. "You managed to crawl halfway across the carpet before I woke to take you into my arms. I—" He pauses, and the silence that follows feels thick and ominous. "I sleep too contently when you are in my bed. Too comfortable. I should have never let this happen."

I love you.

When he breaks the sultry dance of our lips, he leans his forehead into my hair, and it’s so vulnerable that for a moment, I want to scream, ‘I love you!’ For an endless moment, I want to whisper, ‘I understand I belong to you. You won’t be discarding me. You won’t let me go. You’ll hunt me down. I agree. I agree to it, Sir. I’m yours.'"

As my mind rolls, delirious on a cocktail of everything him, I murmur softly, “I love you, Clay.”

Yet, the weight over my waist and the heavy calf hooked over my feet causes both eyes to widen on the polished wooden panels opposite me. He’s still in bed with me. He slept. Through the night...

Staring at the back of my eyes, I recall last night like a mirage of flashing images: the bathtub, the massage, his kisses. Touch. “I love you.”

I’m his... I belong.

My ballooning heart rests comfortably, warm and full, within my ribcage while my lungs strain below his heavy weight. It is a pleasurable sensation. Being so close to crushed, but not close enough to hurt or suffocate. Enough to feel the epitome of secure.

To experience this man, raw, feral, animalistic and without his practised façade, fills me with warmth.

If I lick him... does he belong to me?

I’d like him to belong to me...

“Will you ever belong to me?” The question spills from my lips before I even think about it. His eyes snap open. “I mean...It doesn’t seem fair—” His brows draw in as he stares at the ceiling. “I belong to you.” A long, slow exhale leaves him, stoking the kindling under my heart, forcing it to ignite with frantic little beats. He gazes down at me through his lashes, a softness to the piercing blue rings. “Not in the way you want, little deer. But much more than anyone else.”

"I’ve never really been around children before, but my tastes are pretty similar to a kid’s, ya know?” He smiles, watching my filter-less mouth roll. “Cakes. Cartoons. Pizza. Unicorns. Butterflies... I'll stop."

Will he tell them who I am? Do they already know? How many brothers does he have? I know they are like 'the District Kardashians,' but I sure as hell hope their wives don't behave like them. On the wave of nervousness, outright anxiety follows. What if they don't like me? Will it hurt seeing his niece? A baby? What if they take one look at me and laugh at the ridiculous couple we make?

She sucked the sin out of me and then asked, “Will you ever belong to me?” Fucksake. That, and her “I love you, Clay,” have me twitching and animalistic. Possessive. Volatile, and not me at all. Not careful. Not fucking neutral.

Mine. After everything she has been through, I want to throw her over my shoulder, draw my Glock, and put bullets through anyone who tries to influence her. I want her deaf to outside voices, blind to every manipulative face. I want her ears honed to my timbre, her smile provoked by my mere presence, because she knows I’m the beginning, middle, and fucking end for her and I’m all that matters. I want complete control.

In the gazebo, Cassidy has fallen asleep in Max's lap, cradled in his big arms like a toddler. Beside him is a baby monitor, but he's fixed on his wife's face. His eyes, stormy grey, study the girl in his arms as though he has just in this moment fallen in love with her, as though he is helplessly falling.

My heart is big for Clay My hands shake for him. My breath catches for him.