Devil's Desire [h.s.]

Chapter 23

a/n: i'm deadass posting this at work idgaf small double update because why not

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Chapter 23

For the next few days, my mother's voice echoed in the back of my head. Her voice, Morgan's, Zayn's, Harry's—especially Harry's. As if my brain had suddenly decided it wanted to latch onto everything everyone said in case these final weeks were the last time that I'd see them all.

Something specific Harry had said had stuck with me. The comment about missing my birthday. It was almost unfathomable that it would soon be coming on a year that we'd known each other. The last birthday of mine we'd spent together had been the day after returning from Italy—after I'd completed the drop for Damien. One in which he'd found out accidentally, the news catapulting the two of us into a confusing fight.

At the time, I hadn't ever expected to be celebrating another one with him. But now the very notion that I couldn't dredged up a painful ache in my chest.

Harry had come into our bedroom late this afternoon and found me sitting on the ground in front of a blank canvas. He'd grinned and plunked down beside me, catching my cheek with a chaste kiss. "What are you painting?" he asked, resting his head on my shoulder.

I swallowed hard, blinking at the expanse of white in front of me—how it'd been for the better part of an hour since I'd dragged it out of the closet. What was I painting?

"I don't know," I said quietly. "You're making me nervous."

Harry's grin had deepened at this. "Oh, am I?" he teased, his hands walking their way around my waist. He hauled me into his arms, kissing up the length of my neck. "Is this you telling me to leave?" he breathed against my skin. "No fair. I get to have no fun around here."

I was laughing, squirming in his hold, when I responded, "You're distracting me!"

Harry had reluctantly taken his leave after that—only of course once he'd worked me into a fit of laughter for another ten minutes, his hands drifting beneath my shirt and tickling below my ribs. My skin was still warm from his touch when I'd shoved the canvas, the easel, and paint back into the closet.

Truthfully, I'd known I wasn't going to be painting anything the moment I'd pulled it all out. I still hadn't been able to keep my hand from shaking enough to get a singular clean stroke of paint. But I sometimes liked to look at the canvas. Just to visualize what would be on there if I still could.

"Garçons," I quietly called over Ian and Brooks as I descended the stairs, both of whom had been sitting on the couch watching cartoons. They came bounding toward me and I crouched on the bottom step to address them. "I need you to do me a favour."

They both nodded eagerly.

"I need you to keep Harry busy," I pointed toward the kitchen, where I could hear Harry and Zayn talking. "I'm going out for a bit. Can you do that? Can you keep him busy until I'm back?"

Ian, who was cradling a sleeping Meatloaf in his arms, nodded. "Yes. Keep him busy." His vague French accent punctuated the words.

"And don't tell him I've gone, okay?" I looked between them both, signing 'Quiet.' Then 'secret'.

"Okay, River," Brooks whispered. His eyes remained on mine as I stood, his little head tipping upwards. "Where are you going? Can we come with you—?"

"No," hissed Ian. "Then we can't distract Harry."

"Oh," Brooks frowned. "Right." Then he bounded into the kitchen, followed right behind his brother, the two of them screeching the name of my boyfriend—Meatloaf in tow.