Chapter 16: Ex Files
The daycare kids are either tiny geniuses or future supervillains. There is genuinely no middle ground.
It’s been four days since the whole naked-balcony-furry-forest-fight incident, and somehow nobody has acknowledged it directly since. Which feels more disturbing than if they’d sat me down with a PowerPoint presentation titled So You Accidentally Joined A Cult.
Instead, life has carried on with this bizarre, unsettling normalcy that keeps making me question whether I imagined half of it. The children still growl occasionally. One little girl hissed at a pigeon yesterday. A toddler named Max climbed a bookshelf without using his hands. And this morning, a five-year-old looked me dead in the eyes and said, "You smell happier now," before biting another child over a juice box dispute.
I did paperwork after that. Mostly because I needed a moment.
Still, despite the deeply concerning feral undertones, I kind of love it here.
Which feels suspicious.
The kids are too clever. They absorb information frighteningly fast and speak with the confidence of tiny drunk philosophers. They adore me for reasons I don’t fully understand, though I suspect part of it is because I refuse to baby-talk them and have already told a seven-year-old that if he could successfully explain taxes to me, I’d personally buy him ice cream.
He got halfway there. Terrifying child.
And the guys...
God.
The guys are a whole separate emotional crisis.
Corrian still watches me like he’s trying to solve a problem only he can see. Leo keeps appearing beside me whenever I carry something heavier than a cardboard box despite the fact I am perfectly capable of lifting objects without Viking intervention. Jax has started stealing bites off my plate while calling me Frankfurter with such aggressive affection I’m beginning to think he’d survive a nuclear apocalypse purely through vibes. I keep catching Ezra hovering near me, always pretending to be busy.
And River... I haven’t stopped thinking about the clearing. Or his forehead against mine. Or the way he said your body will remember what your mind had to forget, some heartbreakingly beautiful therapist.
Which is exactly why I’m currently in the city using Ezra’s terrifying black credit card to emotionally support myself through retail therapy. Because if I spend one more day thinking about their hands, or eyes, or lips, I’m gonna end up throwing myself directly into the pond.
The shopping bags dig into my fingers as I step out of another store balancing an iced coffee in one hand and my phone in the other.
Okay, maybe I went slightly overboard. But in my defence, I haven’t bought clothes properly in years. Real clothes, anyway. Not clearance-rack survival garments that disintegrate after one wash and smell vaguely of sadness.
Actual nice things.
Soft oversized sweaters, leggings that don’t immediately become see-through when exposed to sunlight, cute tank tops for work, tiny sleep shorts that make my large ass look banging.
And maybe, hypothetically, a couple pieces of lingerie. Purely for feminism.
Definitely not because I’ve spent the last four nights having deeply inappropriate dreams about tattooed men pinning me against a tree.
Nope.
Not at all.
I take a long sip of my iced coffee while opening Uber. My feet hurt, my hair’s a mess from the wind. I’ve managed to acquire enough shopping bags to look like a financially irresponsible octopus.
Worth it.
The city buzzes around me with late afternoon noise. Car horns. Distant sirens. Music spilling from open shop doors. People weaving past on the sidewalk without making eye contact.
Normal.
Comfortingly normal.
Which is probably why I don’t notice someone approaching until a hand suddenly grabs my arm and yanks me backward.
I gasp hard enough to choke on coffee. Every bag swings violently as panic detonates through my chest.
"What the fu—"
I spin around ready to fight God himself.
Then freeze.
"Oh my God."
Darren grins at me. Same stupid grin. Same stupid face.
My ex-boyfriend looks exactly like every terrible decision I’ve made. Blond hair artfully messy in that very intentional way men pretend is effortless. Leather jacket, pretty smile hiding a personality built entirely from red flags and protein powder.
"Frankie Bell," he says warmly. "Holy shit."
My entire nervous system powers down in disappointment.
"Darren." I reply, not even having to work to keep my voice flat.
He pulls me into a hug before I can stop him and every muscle in my body locks. Because he smells awful. Not body odour, or sweat. Just... wrong.
Sharp and sour underneath the cologne, something spoiled trying to cover itself with aftershave. The scent hits me so hard I physically recoil before I can stop myself.
Darren notices, laughs as he lets me go. "Still dramatic, huh?"
I stare at him trying to understand why my skin’s crawling.
"Have you always smelled like expired yogurt?" I say slowly.
He barks out a laugh. "Jesus Christ, Frankie."
"Seriously. Did something die on you?"
"Nice to see you too."
I shift the shopping bags higher onto my arm, already exhausted. "What do you want, Darren?"
"Ouch, can’t a guy just want to catch up with his lost love?"
"You cheated on me with a waitress, called Cinnamon."
"She was a bartender."
"Honestly, that’s worse."
He laughs again like this is charming banter instead of me verbally recreating his execution.
God, I used to think he was beautiful.
Now all I notice is the sliminess underneath it. The way his eyes drift over me too slowly. The arrogance in how close he stands. The smell. Especially the smell. It’s making me nauseous.
"You look good," he says, reaching out to brush hair from my face.
I flinch away and the movement surprises both of us.
His expression flickers slightly before smoothing over again. "Hmm, you’ve grown claws."
"Only when scumbags deserve it."
"That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble."
"Yeah, but at least it’s not been on half the city."
Darren giggles at that. The audacity of men truly needs studying.
"I deserved that."
"You deserve significantly worse."
He steps closer. Men like Darren mistake tolerance for invitation.
"I miss you, Frankie."
I blink at him flatly. "You literally gave me chlamydia."
"In my defence, I didn’t know."
"Strong defence."
His grin widens. "Come get dinner with me."
"No."
"Drink?"
"No."
"Coffee?"
I hold up my iced coffee. "Already sorted, thanks."
He sighs dramatically, as if I’m being difficult instead of maintaining basic survival instincts. Before I can dodge him, he grabs me into another hug.
And does something weird, even for him. He inhales deeply against my hair, sending a shudder violently down my spine.
Revulsion simmers as every instinct in my body screams. Darren goes strangely still, his grip tightens fractionally.
"What perfume is that?" he murmurs.
"I’m gonna need you to stop smelling me, mutt."
A car horn sounds nearby, and my Uber pulls up to the curb, divine intervention itself.
"Thank Christ."
I wrench free and practically dive toward the car. Darren catches my wrist lightly before I can open the door.
"You disappeared, Frankie." The seriousness in his voice catches me off guard. "I looked for you."
I snort softly. "You lost coochie access, not a wife."
Still, something about the way he’s looking at me now makes my skin prickle.
His gaze drifts slowly over me again. Intent, hungry, and for one bizarre second, I’m struck by a strange certainty. If the guys were here right now, they would absolutely hate him, would tear him to bits.
The thought appears so randomly I nearly laugh. Instead, I pull my wrist free.
"Goodbye, Darren."
I climb into the Uber before he can say another word.
The entire ride back, I can’t stop thinking about the smell.
By the time the forest compound comes into view through the trees, unease has settled low in my stomach. The house glows warmly in the evening light when I finally climb out carrying my mountain of bags. The huge windows reflect gold across the deck while smoke curls lazily from somewhere behind the cabin.
Ezra waits there.
He’s stretched out in one of the deck chairs wearing dark slacks and a charcoal sweater, reading a book looking thoroughly like a billionaire vampire pretending to understand relaxation. One ankle rests over his knee. Glasses sit low on his nose.
Offensive levels of attractive.
He glances up as I approach, his gaze drops to the shopping bags.
"Well," he drawls smoothly, closing his book. "Look at you finally participating in consumerism properly."
I lift the bags higher defensively. "Your scary rich-person card worked well."
"That was the point."
"I bought socks that cost eighteen dollars, Ezra. Eighteen. For feet."
"You deserve comfortable feet."
The sincerity catches me off guard enough that I almost miss the way his expression suddenly changes.
His entire body goes still. Completely still.
I’ve noticed this about the guys. The way they freeze before reacting, predators focusing.
Ezra rises slowly from the chair, his eyes locked onto me. My throat, then my hair.
The shopping bags slip slightly down my arm as unease prickles across my skin.
"Ezra?"
His jaw tightens. "What happened in the city?"
I blink. "Uh. Capitalism?"
His gaze sharpens dangerously as he crosses the deck toward me in long controlled strides that make my pulse start climbing for absolutely no helpful reason.
"Who touched you?" he asks quietly.
The words stop me cold. Not because of what he says, but because of how he says it. Possessive and controlled so tightly, it almost sounds calm.
I laugh nervously. "What?"
Ezra stops directly in front of me, his hand lifts slowly toward my face, fingers brushing lightly along my jaw before disappearing into my hair at the back of my neck.
This is the first time he’s touched me.
His expression darkens as a dangerous thing flashes behind his eyes.
"Frankie," he says softly, "tell me why another man’s scent is all over you."
