I can see in his eyes when he realizes that Hope’s version of events exists outside of his control, that other people know. ThatIknow, a big man, bigger than him. One who will never back down.
"She's a liar.”
"She's the bravest person I've ever met."
"You're fucking her." It's not a question. His lip curls. "Of course. Of course she found some dumb fucking cowboy to?—”
I don't decide to hit him. My body decides. The first punch lands clean on his jaw and snaps his head sideways, and the pain that explodes through my knuckles is incredibly gratifying.
He stumbles but doesn't go down. Catches himself on the dresser and comes back swinging—wild, untrained, fuelled by adrenaline and entitlement. His fist glances off my shoulder. I absorb it, step inside his reach, and drive my fist into his face again, sending him ricocheting off the doorway and into the hallway.
This time, he goes down hard. I'm on top of him before he can get up, my knee on his chest, my hand fisted in his hoodie.
"They aren't your children." My voice doesn't sound like mine. It sounds like something dragged out of the earth, primal and deadly. "You had a chance to be their father and you wasted it."
Blood is pouring from his nose. He's dazed but not done, and I don't register the movement fast enough.
There’s a glint of steel, then a searing pain in my side.
“You fucking prick,” I groan. “Did you just fucking try to stab me?”
I grunt and roll off him, pressing my hand to the wound. My palm comes away wet and dark.
He's scrambling to his feet, knife still in his hand, blood from his nose dripping onto the hardwood floor. He looks half-feral now, cornered and desperate.
The stairs are right behind him.
He could take them willingly.
He won’t.
I try to get up, intent on shoving him down those stairs. I’m a fucking Matthews boy, after all. Deep down. Maybe it’s just what we do.
But there’s another gush from my side, and I can only get to my knees.
He sneers at me and approaches, knife glinting again, still red from my side. “Brought you down, didn’t I? You aren’t that fucking tough, Cowboy?—”
From over my head, the air whistles around us and there’s a heavy thud as Dax’s belt collides with Derek’s head.
He howls and rears back. “You fuckingbitch.”
Hope yanks me up to my feet with impressive mom strength.
But if she thinks I’m letting her get between me and this asshole, she’s so fucking wrong.
I hold my arm out to the side, stopping her from passing me with that belt.
I know she wants to take another swing.
I can’t let her.
With a roar, I tackle him, sending the knife skittering down the stairs. Following it in a tangle of flying limbs. We bounce off the wall at the landing and somehow stay on our feet, circling each other.
He takes a swing.
Misses.
I grab the front of his shirt, slamming him back against the log wall so hard there’s a satisfying crack. I don’t care if it’s from him or the logs.
