I’ve hit him enough. Why aren’t I stopping?
I’d spent my entire career insisting I could never take a life, no matter the circumstances. But standing over Brett Fontaine’s bleeding form, watching him curl into himself like the coward he was, I understood something new about myself.
Maybe we’re all capable of shocking violence under the right circumstances.
I crouched down, grabbed his hair, and yanked his head back. Blood ran from his nose like a faucet. “If you ever look at Faith Morrison again, if you even think her name, what I just did to your face will feel like a kindness.”
I let his head drop, stood, and straightened my shirt. My knuckles throbbed. Possibly broken.
As I walked toward the door, I heard him wheeze, “You’re … you’re insane.”
I paused, hand on the doorknob. “No. I’m just tired of no one fighting for the people who need it most.”
The hallway was empty when I emerged. I made it halfway to the exit when that same bartender appeared, her face pale at the sight of my knuckles.
“Should I call an ambulance?” she whispered.
I knew in that moment that she wasn’t surprised someone had kicked her boss’s ass. She’d expected it would finally happen one day, and based on her body language, she didn’t hate it. That told me Brett was an even bigger douchebag than I’d realized.
I pulled out my wallet, handed her five one-hundred-dollar bills. “For your discretion. And, yes, call an ambulance.”
She nodded, tucking the money away with shaking hands.
I pushed through the front doors into the cool night air, flexing my damaged hand. The pain grounded me, pulled me back from that edge I’d almost crossed.
What did that mean? That I’d wanted to keep going?
I looked down at my knuckles, already swelling and split. Blood—his and mine—stained my shirt cuff.
For Faith, apparently, I was capable of more than I thought.
The realization sat heavy in my chest. Not just what I’d done to Brett, but how hard it had been to stop. How much I’d wanted to keep going.
Which made me wonder … whatever happened that night with Daniel Kearns—whatever Faith did to end up charged with murder—maybe it went down exactly like this. Maybe someone pushed her too far, hurt her too deep, and she simply … didn’t stop.
The parallel should have disturbed me. Should have made me question everything about taking her case, about getting involved with her.
Instead, all I felt was understanding.
Sliding into my car, I dialed the one person who would be just as pissed about what Brett did to her.
37
RYKER
“Hey, are you at work?”
Gripping my cell phone hurt like hell, but I used my good hand to grip the wheel as I peeled out of the parking lot. The tires squealed against the asphalt, leaving rubber marks that matched the fury burning through my veins. My knuckles throbbed with each heartbeat, split skin singing a symphony of satisfaction and pain.
“Hello to you too,” Blake drawled from the other end of the line. “I’m doing fantastic, thanks for asking. And Tessa? She’s wonderful as well.”
“Are you at work?” I repeated through gritted teeth, taking a corner hard.
“What’s wrong?” The sarcasm evaporated from his voice. “You sound fucking pissed.”
“Just answer the question.”
“No. I’m not at work.” A beat of silence. “Ryker, what the hell?—”
