Chapter Five

My False Safe Haven

SHAW

Waking up feels like clawing my way out of wet concrete.

Last night’s episode floods back in a hot rush.

My throat burns first. Then my head. Then the heavy ache sitting behind my eyes arrives like it had been waiting for me to regain consciousness. I groan quietly and drag a hand down my face before opening my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling painted in soft cream.

Right.

Mayor Hale’s house.

My false safe haven.

I shift under the blankets and instantly regret it. My body feels weak in that post-adrenaline way, like my muscles forgot how to taut. There’s still a faint taste of spice and stomach acid at the back of my throat.

The spooky ghost of peanut butter.

Fanta-fucking-tastic.

I stare upward for a second longer before noticing the faint sound of fingers tapping against a phone screen.

I turn my head.

Lucas Hale is sitting shirtless in a rocking chair near the window like a gorilla king.

There was never a rocky chair in this room. Which means he brought it here, alongside the dark and heavy cloud which is hovering over us.

The room is dim except for the morning light spilling through the curtains behind him, outlining the sharp cut of his shoulders and chest in pale gold. His legs are stretched lazily in front of him, ankle resting over his knee while he scrolls through his phone with complete disinterest.

Like I’m not even there.

Like he didn’t almost have his way with homicide yesterday.

His cinnamon locks are still damp at the ends, probably from a shower, and he’s wearing loose grey sweatpants hanging offensively low on his hips. Tattoos crawl over one arm and disappear beneath the waistband.

The asshole looks painfully comfortable, and it pisses me off.

He doesn’t glance up when he speaks.

“Well,” he drawls, voice rough with sleep and arrogance, “look who survived.”

I stare at his side profile.

“You sound disappointed.”

That earns me the ghost of a smirk.

“Disappointed isn’t the word,” he says. “Mildly inconvenienced is.”

Of course.

I push myself upright slowly, ignoring the brief dizziness that sways through my head. My parole officer would probably tell me near-death experiences build character.

Personally, I think they mostly build resentment.

Lucas finally looks up from his phone then, blue eyes landing on me with a lazy assessment.

“Feeling better now, little shit?”

The audacity of this man.

I just look at him with no intention to reply to his hypocritical question.

I might say something that violates parole, and probably stroke the rich boy’s ego if I speak too quickly.

He watches me for another second before sighing dramatically.

“You know,” he says, “most people say thank you when someone watches over them during recovery.”

A laugh nearly leaves me.

Instead, I say flatly, “You poisoned me.”

“I pranked you.”

“You nearly sent me into cardiac arrest.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

I rub a hand over my face slowly.

God, I hate him.

Not originally hate, though. More like a mild irritation. Lucas Hale inspires the kind of fury that settles into your bloodstream and makes your teeth hurt.

And the worst part?

He enjoys it.

You can see it in the way he lounges there, completely unbothered. Like every reaction he gets from me is another entertaining episode in the tragedy of Shaw Carter’s life.

When I don’t respond, he lifts one shoulder.

“For the record,” he says, “I only stayed because my father made me.”

He’s rocking harshly on his chair with a deliberate intention to completely ruin it.

Lucas rolls his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Apparently attempted manslaughter isn’t ideal for my public image.”

“Attempted—”

“Oh relax,” he interrupts lazily. “You’re alive. Mrs. Able keeps checking.”

I grit my teeth hard enough to hurt.

His gaze drifts over me slowly then—not flirtatious, not soft. Clinical. Observant. Like he’s studying how much damage he managed to do.

It makes my skin itch.

“I would’ve left hours ago,” he continues, “but Dad said staying here was part of my punishment, shoving this goddamn bursted ass rickety rock chair in my hand to bring with me.”

I smack my lips.

“How tragic.”

“I know, right? I’m suffering immensely.”

The room falls quiet after that.

Lucas goes back to scrolling through his phone like the conversation bored him halfway through, the rocking chair creaking softly beneath him.

I watched him for a moment despite myself.

There’s something deeply wrong with him and it’s not in the dramatic serial killer sense. There’s a quieter and sharper edge to him. Like every emotion he has gets filtered through amusement before it reaches the surface.

It’s almost like nothing touches him honestly.

Not even guilt. Especially not guilt.

“You can leave now,” I say eventually. I’m hoping serenity will be restored back in his room and in my mind the moment he leaves.

He hums absently.

“I’m serious.”

He’s still scrolling.

I exhale slowly through my nose before continuing.

“Stay out of my way,” I tell him. “Avoid me completely and I’ll do the same for you. I promise.”

That finally gets his attention.

Lucas lowers the phone to look at me.

He then smiles, but it’s a vile one, edged with something ugly enough to make the hairs rise slightly at the back of my neck.

For a second, neither of us says anything.

The morning light catches in his eyes, turning the blue colder somehow.

Then he clicks his tongue softly.

“A good but tough request,” he murmurs.

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

He stands from the rocking chair in one smooth movement, stretching lazily before slipping his phone into his pocket.

Because apparently Satan himself wakes up flexibly.

He walks toward the door slowly while I watch him carefully. Relieved, as well.

Every instinct in me stays alert around this guy.

I watch his back muscles taut

When he reaches the doorway, he pauses, one hand resting against the frame. He glances back over his shoulder.

“My father,” he says lightly, “has made it mandatory that I show you around the city today.”

I blink.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No.”

Lucas grins.

“I don’t remember asking.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Well that’s quite unfortunate,” he says. “Because apparently rehabilitation involves fresh air and social integration.”

“I’d rather eat glass.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he replies. “You’ve already proven your digestive system is fragile.”

I glare at him. He looks delighted by it.

“I’m not spending a whole day with you,” I say firmly.

Lucas considers this for exactly half a second.

“Counterpoint,” he says, “you are.”

I swear this man was handcrafted in a laboratory specifically to test my patience.

“Why does your father even care?”

At that, something flickers briefly across his face. It was gone too quickly to identify.

“He thinks,” Lucas says carefully, “that exposure to normal life is good for parolees.”

“Right.”

“He also thinks I need to learn empathy. I love his fate.”

I snort before I can stop myself.

Lucas smiles slowly.

“There he is.”

I immediately wiped the expression off my face.

Absolutely not.

I am not bonding with this menace because he accidentally said something funny.

Lucas notices anyway.

Of course he does.

His eyes sharpen with amusement like he’s just discovered something interesting.

“I’ll give you an hour,” he says. “Try not to die before then. Dad would make the paperwork my problem.”

Then he walks out.

I stare at the empty doorway for several long seconds, hoping for serenity to be restored.

It doesn’t.

I groan and fall back against the pillows.

This house is going to kill me.

One way or another.