He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t hesitate. He closes the distance between himself and Michael and punches him square in the face.
25
They say people black out with rage. Not me. I knew exactly what I was doing. I saw my target clearly—and I knew what I wanted.
I don’t wonder who this bastard is in our house. Iknow. A dead man.
He doesn’t drop from my first blow. I’m certain he saw it coming and tried to lessen it by leaning back. Still, I caught his jaw, and before he can retreat out of reach, I grab a fistful of his shirt.
“Motherfucker!” he spits, swinging wide.
A normal reaction would’ve been to dodge. Instead, I step in, letting the punch hit awkwardly above my ear. Then I drive my forehead into his and, with years of strength training behind me, hurl him into the wall to my left.
The impact rattles the windows. He’s dazed, but it’s clear he’s had some sort of training, because he’s back on his feet faster than he should be.
He pops his neck, then lunges. His frame matches mine—broad shoulders, solid torso—but the second he slams into me, it’sobvious it’s all for show. Intimidation without bite.
I scoff, hook an arm over the back of his head, force him forward, and drive my knee into his gut. He jabs my ribs, but adrenaline has me numb. All I feel is the rage—pure and consuming—for him daring to lay a hand on Ayden.
“Come on,” I growl, dragging him toward the door. “Can’t haveshitin our home.”
Kicking open the screen door, I angle us so I can hurl him straight toward the stairs. My boot slams into his chest before he can grab the pillars for support. The sound of his groan as he hits the ground and rolls is satisfying. Landing flat on his tailbone like that had to fucking hurt.
Only then do I glance behind me, seeing Ayden rushing toward the door.
“Stay inside.”
I don’t wait for a response and stride down the steps. I drive my composite-toed boot into his side, causing him to roll away—more than once—clearly trying to put distance between us.
As he scrambles to his feet, I crack my knuckles, popping each finger against my palms.
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you picked the wrong man to fuck with.”
He stumbles back, nostrils flaring, his skin flushing darker with fury. “I’m his goddamn boyfriend!”
“I don’t give a shit if you’re the fucking Pope.” I advance on him, forcing him to retreat toward the parked black sedan. My truck’s parked tight behind it—on purpose—but in seconds I’m regretting not blocking the cabin instead.
He wrenches open the passenger-side door, digs into the seat, and pulls out a pistol.
“Michael!” Ayden screams.
Of course, he didn’t listen and stay inside.
My eyes lock on the barrel aimed at me. I’ve never been shot, but in my line of work it’s always been a possibility. I’d be a fool not to take it seriously. But backing down? Not happening.
“The second you flick that safety off, you’ll have one chance,” I warn, my voice low. “If you don’t kill me, I’ll take that gun andfeed the soil your brain matter.”
For a heartbeat, silence crushes us. No one speaks. The only proof of life is the rise of his chest—and the matching weight of my own breathing.
When his eyes shift from me to the cabin, rage burns away any trace of fear.
“Don’t you fucking look at him.”
Whether it’s my words or something else, his demeanor changes—unhinged to eerily calm. He lowers the gun, lifts his other hand, and rakes it through his chopped, curly hair.
I dare a glance at Ayden—phone in hand, aimed at us both.
Michael’s smile wavers. “What a story to tell when I get home; how you’re fucking your stepbrother, Ayden. I always knew you had issues?—”
