His Pretty Little Burden: A Dark Mafia, Age Gap Romance (Kids of The District Book 4)
His Pretty Little Burden: Chapter 10

I WATCH Fawn as she wanders away, down the hallway, before turning to my brother, catching his eyes scrutinising me.

Smug little shit.

‘She’s… distracting,’ he says with a smirk.

I move back to my desk, smiling with feigned indifference as though he’s alone in his assessment. ‘Plenty of pretty girls in this world, Xan. Which reminds me, go home. You need your beauty sleep.’

‘I’m young, mate, those kinds of issues are reserved for men your age.’ He fights back an inevitable yawn as it surfaces. ‘But I do have a hot chick in my bed. Wouldn’t mind waking her up early with my cock.’

Sitting down, I shake my head through a long sigh. ‘Charming.’

‘Absolutely.’ A grin twitches on his lips as he collects his backpack and file. ‘I’m smooth as fuck. She won’t even wake up until I’m balls deep.’

It’s a front. I know this. A small chuckle leaves me anyway, amused by his youthful demeanour, be it a mask for whatever ails him or not. I’ve still always enjoyed his unrestrained banter. ‘You spent far too much time with Max growing up.’

I know… because he was available.

Where I wasn’t. It’s an unfortunate truth.

He heads towards the door, his backpack braced over his shoulder, looking every bit a young man without the kind of weight that my predetermined path bestowed upon me. Looking it, yes, but he isn’t fooling me. He’s hiding so much. But aren’t we all? If I were a better brother, I’d ask him about it. If I were a better brother, I’d know. ‘Thanks for your help, Xan. Drive safely.’

Something taps on his tongue, but then he nods, squashing it. ‘Always. Night, mate.’

‘Night, buddy.’

I exhale a long breath as he closes the door behind him. As always, regret for my absence, for being just like Butch and Jimmy and replaceing business more important than them, whatever it is that keeps him a fort for his true emotions, settles inside me.

Being neglectful, it seems, is a family trait.

Which brings my mind back to my little deer.

Glancing back at the monitor, I go to the USB drive and open it up, clicking on the footage of Fawn from three months ago in that witness room. Marius recently confirmed the information on the footage. The mother’s death, the boy she spoke of, Benji, is also dead, all leading me to believe her reasoning for being here. She is alone.

I press play.

‘YOUR MOTHER SEEMS to think the drugs are yours,’ the officer says, sliding a photo over to her. ‘Lots of illegal contraband found.’

‘Foster mother,’ Fawn corrects, staring at the photo. Her confidence, bite, is nearly non-existent. ‘And she’s lying. I don’t do drugs.’

‘You’re high, Fawn.’ He grins, her state humorous to him. ‘That would make you the liar. Not her.’

She looks up to replace him smiling, her eyes glossy, confused. ‘Have you spoken to Landon and Jake?’

He sighs, exasperated, uninterested. ‘Do you know that you could be charged with manslaughter for providing the drugs? Causing the boy’s accident?’

Fawn straightens. ‘How do you know it was an accident? Who said that?’

He folds his arms over his chest. ‘Your brothers said he fell, Fawn. The three of you were in the basement, and the boy fell on the table. Stabbed himself with the leg. They both gave the same statement.’

She lets that sink in before saying, ‘They told me they didn’t remember. So, you spoke to them separately then? Landon away from Jake? Jake’s a bully.’

‘You seem suspicious,’ he taunts, and she visibly loses her resolve—sinking back. ‘You know the people who are the most suspicious usually have the most to hide.’

She shuts down. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not thinking properly.’

I PAUSE THE SCREEN.

So, the boy died in front of her only three months ago. That is not something normal people just walk away from unscathed. She’s scathed—

I’ve watched the life dissolve from within men’s eyes, a few women and one girl, too. Only one person, though, that I would consider a kind of family member. Jimmy Storm. And his passing is always thick in the air around me.

Death doesn’t usually affect me.

But his lingers. It is in my pores, that sweet whiskey and cigars. It’s in my mind that suspects everyone. In the shadow atop all of my dealings as I move several steps ahead of everyone else while he moves four ahead of me. Fucker.

How do their deaths linger around young Fawn?

What actions are driven by their passing? What do their emotional phantoms guilt her into feeling, doing? Is she here because of what happened that night… or is she simply retreating, vulnerable, trying to replace any semblance of family she can latch onto?

Neglected.

Like my brothers were…

That fucking realisation hits me hard, bringing regret, consideration, fucking pity, perhaps, down on me. And that girl from so long ago slams back into my mind. The one she reminded me of. The one who was just business. A casualty of the Family. A job to be done.

Just like Fawn.

I stand and head towards the kitchen.

Slowly making my way towards the light, I loosen my tie further, feeling warmth on my skin from the humidity, from the half bottle of whiskey I’ve ingested.

When I enter my kitchen, I’m stilled by the sight of Fawn bowed at the hips, peering at a lower shelf in the fridge.

She’s oblivious to my presence.

I lean my shoulder against the door frame, intrigued by her as she analyses the contents of my fridge. She moves nervously, every action hesitant. Her previously questionable submission, the dropping to her knees, it’s not an act.

I can see that now.

Just like in the witness room. She relented. Decided she couldn’t win. So, she’s either smart or weak; I think the former.

But her use of the word sorry… it has no meaning to her. She is casually sorry for everything. A little people-pleaser. I don’t like it—at all.

My eyes drop to her small, petite feet before trailing up the length of two perfectly formed legs. I frown when my view is interrupted by the silky material lightly grazing the skin at her upper thigh. I know what it hides. A masterpiece of a figure, seamlessly feminine in a sweet girlish way. Not the kind you can create by visiting the gym and eating healthy, the kind that is soft skin moulded around a perfect frame—the kind that is genetic.

‘I look like my mother,’ she said.

No wonder Dustin had an affair with her mother. It would take a damn army to drag a body like that away from any man with a pulse. Away from her hair, near white, long, and thick, it drapes across her like a shield. Away from the lower curves of her arse in that bikini. Away from her long legs. Legs I should demand to fold, to kneel above me while she sits on my face… I ball my fists in tight.

She’s too slim, though.

A soft sound surrounds her. Is she talking to herself? She scoops her long blonde hair to the side, laying it down one shoulder. I smile. Watching her in her own company, not pleasing anyone but herself, is insight.

Well, I did tell her to eat.

So, she is pleasing me.

She touches the cake container, her fingers tapping the lid softly, contemplatively. My cock twitches as she considers defying me. She pauses. Then twists to the door and retrieves the glass bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice.

I wish she had gone for the cake.

Seemingly in her own mind, she walks the glass bottle over to the counter, carelessly placing it down too close to the edge. It slips off.

Fucksake, Fawn.

I’m upon her just as it careens to the floor, smashing around her bare feet and ankles. Startled by the smashing sound, then by me, her breath hitches.

Glass pops beneath my shoes as I scoop her into my arms, cradling her against my chest. Her warm, weightless body heats that Butcher head of mine.

Her hesitation makes her clumsy.

Her lack of confidence is a damn issue.

I despised Dustin before I knew he had a daughter he never cared for… like him even less now she is in my arms and smells like… I lock my jaw.

Natural.

Feminine.

Sweet. Not a scent I often get from skin alone. It makes me consider Aurora’s advice, overlooking the damage my temporary affection could have on her. I could spread her wide open and taste her sweat as it drips between her pussy lips.

Needing her out of my arms before that becomes a very real, raw reality, I plant her arse on the countertop and stare deadpan at the glass wading in the orange liquid marring the kitchen tiles.

‘God, I’m sorry.’ She groans to herself. ‘I’ll clean it up. And I’ll squeeze more oranges tomorrow… if they’ll let me squeeze them,’ she says, attempting to amuse me.

Gripping the marble edges on either side of her body, I sigh roughly. Then lift my attention, replaceing her wide-eyed gaze. ‘What would you have done if I wasn’t here?’ The question mocks me, loaded, annoyingly so. Images of her in the witness room plague me, of her arms holding her waist, her relenting to their interrogation.

At her neglect.

She glances at the glass, then back at me. ‘I’d survive. It’d just be a cut.’

She’d survive. My blood pumps heatedly through my body, scorching every cell. It’s the onset of a possessive sensation. Mis-fucking-placed as it is, but right now, every muscle inside me wants to protect her.

This girl is getting to me.