25
Harlow
By the time Harlow arrived at the landing of the fourth floor, Simon was gone. The door joining the stairwell to the hall beyond slammed shut in his wake, its echo ringing in Harlow’s ears. There was finality in that sound—foreboding isolation, like now that the door was in place, Simon would never join them again.
Harlow couldn’t let that happen.
Not now. Not ever.
Fear, unexpected and unwelcome, spiked in Harlow’s subconscious. Battle had hardened him, combat had rewired his brain, and Emerson’s death had shriveled all of the frayed, fragile nerve endings once exposed in his psyche, leaving Harlow numb. No one should have been able to evoke such strong panic in him—no one but Evie, whose wellbeing and happiness mattered more to Harlow than his own ever would. But to think that Simon—quiet, humble Simon, who was more likely to duck his gaze and blush than meet Harlow’s eyes—was afraid, terrified, and yet rushing toward trouble without a second thought, dropped dread through Harlow’s stomach like a stone tossed into lava. It heated and warped, melting into something he couldn’t recognize, and that would never look the same again, no matter how it set. It burned through him, urgent like nothing else.
He had to save him. He had to make things right. If he didn’t, that molten sensation would continue to sink. It would scar him from the inside, just like Emerson’s passing had, and Harlow would be left to sift through the lava with his hands, dragging out the twisting, liquid dread as it dripped between his fingers and began the plunge all over again.
Not this time.
Never again.
Harlow darted for the door, wrenched it open, and launched himself down the hall. The world came into focus slowly as he moved, little more than an afterthought. Details strung together in his mind like a tapestry, forming a full image, yet distinguishable by their separate threads.
Simon, small and nonthreatening, still on the move.
The door to the apartment Simon shared with his brothers.
A hall empty save for Harlow, Simon, and one other soul.
Him.
Harlow had never seen the man before, but he didn’t need an introduction to deduce who he was. Long-limbed and barrel-chested. A small, round head with dark hair and features that would have been handsome had it not been for the ugly scowl that mangled his lips and creased his brow. If Justin were the human embodiment of a hangnail, the man occupying the space in front of Simon’s apartment door was a puncture wound from a rusty nail turned gangrenous. Rotten, festering anger thrived behind his eyes, fed by resentment that Harlow couldn’t begin to understand, and nurtured by inebriation. Even from down the hall, he reeked of alcohol.
Bastian.
In Harlow’s mind, there was no other man it could be.
“Open the door, you fucking filthy slut!” Bastian bellowed. He slammed the side of his fist over and over against the apartment door, causing it to rattle and groan. “You want to talk? Youreallywant to talk? I’ll fuck you thefuckup. Why should I wanna talk to you when all you do islie?”
Simon flew down the hall and latched onto Bastian’s arm, tugging at it in an attempt to pull him away from the door. Next to Bastian, who was at least six feet tall and solidly built, Simon was minuscule. He didn’t stand a chance. Still, he struggled with every ounce of strength he possessed, trying to win an impossible fight.
“Stop!” Simon begged. “Stop it! Your son is in there! Don’t you care about his comfort? His safety?”
“Fuck off, twerp.” Bastian flung his arm back, sending Simon stumbling down the hall. “That kid ain’t mine, and youandthat fucking slut inside know it.”
No more.
Before Simon caught his balance, Harlow charged. Bastian, whose defenses were down, was knocked back from the door and pinned against the wall. Harlow barred his arm across his collarbone, locking him in place.
“Fuck!” Bastian breathed. Sour hops carried on his breath. His eyes came into focus. A moment later, anger sharpened behind his pupils. He glared at Harlow. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Your wakeup call,” Harlow uttered. He removed his hold across Bastian’s collarbone only so he could slam his forearm against his chest, winding him. Once Bastian was weakened, Harlow stepped back. “You’re going to leave the apartment building with me nice and quiet, and then you’re going to leave Jayne and Simon alone.”
“Oh. I get it.” Bastian barked a coarse, unhinged laugh. The sound suppurated, thick and vile from the rot hidden behind Bastian’s bones. “You’re the new guy he’s fucking—his next baby daddy. You gonna keep defending him even when the little whore—”
Harlow grabbed Bastian by the neck and pushed him against the wall. The back of his head hit the plaster with a satisfyingclunk.“No matter what he did to you, he doesn’t deserve to be called names. Be the bigger man.”
Bastian latched onto his wrist and tore Harlow’s hand away. He didn’t reply—instead, he swung his fist at Harlow’s face. It had been years since Harlow’s last PT session, but his reflexes were still sharp, and he intercepted the punch before it could connect and followed through by twisting Bastian’s arm at an unnatural angle. Bastian staggered forward, following his arm as Harlow took control, and howled with pain.
If Bastian struggled, his bones would break one by one.
“Stop!” Pain bubbled in Bastian’s voice. “Stop!”
