“We’ve got this,” he murmured, close to my ear. “Together, remember?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Together. The word settled over me, warm and sure. We’d face whatever came next—the hearing, Dennis, the future stretching before us—not as two separate people but as something stronger. A unit. A family.
It wouldn’t be enough to stop the fear entirely. Nothing would. But as we started up the steps, side by side, it was enoughto keep me moving forward, one foot in front of the other, toward whatever waited inside.
We were halfway up the courthouse steps when I spotted them—Macon’s tall frame first, then Rawley’s broader one, Carter’s more slender build, and Hooper bringing up the rear with his perpetual half-smirk.
They moved with the casual precision of men used to working as a unit, falling into formation around us without a word being spoken. It should have felt suffocating, all these alphas closing ranks, but instead, something in my chest loosened just a fraction.
I wasn’t facing this alone.
“You came,” I said, the words catching in my throat.
Rawley nodded, his expression grim. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Carter stepped closer, squeezing my shoulder gently. “How are you holding up?”
Before I could answer, Burke’s hand settled at the small of my back, a warm, steady pressure that centered me. “We’re good,” he said, though his eyes never left the courthouse doors. “Just getting our game faces on.”
Macon and Hooper exchanged a look I couldn’t quite decipher, then moved to flank us, creating a living barrier between me and the entrance. It was overkill—Dennis was already inside, probably in some holding cell—but I couldn’t deny the relief that washed through me at the sight of them.
The five of them made an intimidating picture—all that height and breadth and barely contained power, dressed in their version of courtroom appropriate, which meant jeans without holes and button-ups that actually covered their forearms.
People gave us a wide berth as we continued up the steps, some shooting curious glances our way, others deliberately looking anywhere else.
As we reached the top, Burke leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re safe,” he whispered. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to. But my body remembered what my mind was trying to forget—the crack of Dennis’s fist against bone, the way his eyes went flat and empty right before he hit, the sound he made when he was really enjoying himself.
I’d spent ten years learning to read the signs, to make myself small, to disappear before the storm hit. Old habits didn’t die just because you wanted them to.
The courthouse doors swung open with a creak that seemed to echo through the cavernous space beyond. The lobby was all marble and wood, high ceilings that made footsteps ring, and the sharp smell of furniture polish underlying something less definable—fear, maybe, or just the accumulated tension of hundreds of people who’d stood where we were standing, waiting for justice or mercy or sometimes just an ending.
A sheriff’s deputy glanced up from his desk as we entered, doing a quick assessment of our little group. His eyes lingered on Rawley—everyone’s did—before he nodded slightly and went back to his paperwork.
We moved through the metal detectors one by one, setting off alarms on Burke’s belt buckle and what Macon claimed was an ancient pocketknife he’d forgotten about. The security guard just waved them through after a quick pat-down, clearly deciding we weren’t worth the paperwork.
The courtroom was at the end of a long hallway, double doors standing open to reveal rows of hard wooden benches and a raised dais where the judge would sit. My stomach flipped again, and not from morning sickness this time.
It was happening. Really happening.
We filed in, Rawley leading the way to a bench about halfway back. He positioned himself at the end, then gestured for me to sit next to him, with Burke on my other side. Macon and Carter took the bench behind us, while Hooper claimed a seat across the aisle, giving him a clear view of both the door and the defense table.
It was a tactical formation, I realized—Rawley and Burke as the first line of defense, Macon and Carter as backup, Hooper as lookout. They’d done this before, probably dozens of times, in places far more dangerous than a Montana courthouse. The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it just drove home how far out of my depth I was.
The wooden bench was hard beneath me, unforgiving. I shifted, trying to find a comfortable position, but my body was too tense, muscles locked in anticipation of... something. Flight or fight, with nowhere to run and no one to hit.
Burke’s hand found mine beneath the bench, squeezing gently. “Breathe,” he murmured. “Just breathe.”
I nodded, forcing air into lungs that felt too small, too tight. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Again. Again.
The room filled slowly—a woman in a sharp suit who took a seat at the prosecutor’s table, an older man with a briefcase who nodded to the defense table, a few spectators who scattered themselves across the back benches. Nobody sat near us. I didn’t blame them.
Then the side door opened, and everything stopped.
He looked smaller somehow, Dennis did, in the orange jumpsuit with his hands cuffed in front of him. His hair was longer than I’d ever seen it, greasy and uncombed, and there was a bruise fading along his jaw—not from me, I knew. I’d never managed to land a punch that left a mark.
The bailiff guided him to the defense table, one hand on his elbow, the other hovering near his holster. Standard procedure,probably, but it made something in my chest twist to see my brother—the boy who’d taught me to throw a baseball, who’d let me sneak into his bed during thunderstorms—treated like he was dangerous.
