I can’t blame her. Hell, I wouldn’t forgive myself, either.
I left the country for two days, told Logan to watch her. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t have a choice. And he’s talking to her, touching her. I fucking hate it.
An hour later, I charge Logan in Gideon’s office. “You son of a bitch!”
I chased after the asshole, knowing where he’d be.
Gideon groans. “Not in my office.”
“He had his hands on her,” I shout.
“She was crying.”
I grab my younger brother by the collar. “You made her cry?”
Logan turns to look at Gideon. “He’s lost it.”
“You shouldn’t have put your hands on her.” I slam him against a wall.
“I didn’t know you were back from Palermo.”
I slam a fist into his stomach.
“Take this to the gym,” Gideon orders.
I’m past caring.
“Why were you there?”
Logan growls as he straightens. “That hurt, you motherfucker.”
“Why were you there?” I repeat, louder this time.
“To tell her you love her.”
I punch him again.
“I have a meeting in five minutesin my office,” Gideon states.
He’s giving us a time limit. He did that while we were growing up, too. We could brawl for a set amount of time, and then we had to get our acts together.
“You had no right to talk to her.”
“She had every right to the truth,” Logan insists.
“You don’t know what this is?—”
“I know what itisn’t,” he cuts me off. “You love her.”
I swing again. This time, Logan pushes me back, snarls, and comes at me. We collide like we’re thirteen—no rules, no strategy, just fists and fury and the kind of bone-deep understanding that only brothers have.
He gets a shot to my ribs. Hard. Makes me grunt and stagger a step.
I retaliate with a brutal hook to his jaw, snapping his head sideways.
He spits blood, grins like a lunatic, and drives a shoulder into my gut, knocking the wind out of me.
We hit the ground, a tangle of fists and knees, cursing each other, not holding back.
