Chapter Fourteen
Booker
How had his actions created this?
“What do you mean, you shifted and attacked other shifters in the street? Why would you drag our good name into the gutter like this? Break your curfew when I strictly stated you needed to be here when your mother placed dinner on the table? What part of that fits with my expectations?”
Each question came at him like a bullet, creating just as much devastation given his father’s refusal to so much as acknowledge the two men who’d insisted on coming into his home to explain why Booker was late.
Booker stood dressed in the hospital gown he’d had to wear home because he’d shredded his clothes in his hurry to shift. Worrying about them hadn’t been on his mind when he’d chased after the group of bullies who’d gone after his best friend, Silas. He gulped as his father’s fury rolled over everyone in the room, although his father hadn’t raised his voice. He didn’t need to, to make his point. He never had.
The tiny, smartly dressed man who’d insisted on bringing Booker home, took a step closer to him and rested his hand on his arm. The quiet acceptance and support he’d always found in the Starling family didn’t have the same effect when it brought Lane Starling closer to the angry man, looking at him with something that kicked Booker in the gut. Derision.
He’d always worked hard not to overstep all the boundaries his father set for them. He’d spent his childhood working hard to get his father’s approval. Right in that moment, it dawned on him that to be what his father wanted would mean he’d have to turn his back on people he loved. It made answering impossible.
The pressure on his arm increased, as if Lane had sensed his inner conflict. “As I explained and apologized for, Booker was defending my son against six other teenagers who were attacking him. I wanted to ensure Booker got checked out at the hospital before we brought him home, so the lateness of the hour is our fault.” Lane, an omega, added a little more snap to his voice than when they’d arrived a couple of minutes ago.
Derick Starling, Lane’s husband, stood silently at his side. They had both wanted to come and offer thanks, but Booker could see now he’d made a vital error of judgment by agreeing to this.
His father towered over Lane and jabbed a finger that was twice the size of Lane’s, right in his face, nearly touching his nose. “I wasn’t talkin’ to you.”
Oh, no! “Dad—”
The hand flung out with force in his direction and made contact before Booker could second guess what was happening. The slapping sound left a stunned silence in its wake. Though the slap stung, it didn’t hurt as much as Booker’s pride. The man ruled the house with an iron will. A feat that could bring everyone in the family to heel immediately, just with a look.
Booker’s mom winced but said nothing. It was Derick, a wolf shifter, coming one step forward that set off alarm bells. The tension in the room was volatile, leaving Booker dry mouthed and conflicted. He’d never once considered that he’d have to defend someone against his father’s wrath. But these men represented the goodness Booker secretly wanted to be measured against.
“You come into this house, acting like your divergent son isn’t the reason Booker broke the rules,” he spat, acting as if it was an everyday occurrence to hit his son in front of others, “like I’d be proud. He beat up shifters! Where the hell is the pride in that? Where?” he snarled in Lane’s face.
As small as Lane was, he never moved a muscle as he held Booker’s father’s furious gaze. “Am I permitted to speak now?” The icy contempt Lane fired back came with a helping of fake pleasantries when he smiled.
This time, Booker anticipated his father’s reaction and stepped in front of Lane before the punch could touch a man he respected. He rocked on his bare feet at the force at which his father delivered the punch. He couldn’t catch his breath from the impact to his chest and wheezed, coming forward only to receive two quick jabs to the head, knocking him back onto his ass. His vision waved and blood trickled out of his mouth from his busted lip.
He blinked rapidly, and then wished he hadn’t when he watched in horror the pandemonium that broke out in front of him .
Body jerking, Booker woke with the sudden, violent urge to defend. He blinked in the dark and worked to calm his breathing as he relived the horror of a night that had changed his world. A cold sweat coated his skin as he rolled out of bed and snapped on the lamp. Pushing the nightmarish visions from his head, he walked into the bathroom. His hand trembled as he filled the glass he left on the counter with cold water.
He shivered, drank deep and avoided looking at himself in the mirror, knowing all he’d see were haunted eyes. He filled the glass again, this time sipping it before plonking the empty glass down and going back into the bedroom. With a sweeping look around the room, he saw the tumbled sheets on his bed, evidence that he’d been thrashing around. He sighed quietly and listened out to hear if he’d disturbed anyone. His nightmares had receded over the years, but with recent events, he should have expected it might trigger one. The violence of that fateful night, when he’d been declared dead to his family, haunted him. Dead to people who only saw the value of those who could shift. What they’d discovered in the factory's basement when they’d gone to kick those shithead alphas out of Design Detailing & Co had cut way too close to Booker’s past inner turmoil. He loathed with a passion the world's injustice and use of threats and violence to control others, and hated even more that nothing had superseded it.
He released a shuddering breath, knowing he was done with sleeping for the night.
His past family had put paid to that .
They aren’t your family. Not the one that counts, his bear grumbled and settled back down.
It was an argument they’d had a time or two—three hundred—over what came before and after. Booker hated his father, it was deep-seated, and he lived with it… accepted it to a degree. But losing his mother? That hurt, cut too deep to heal. Nights like tonight, where he traveled back to that night in the alleyway, to what came after… yeah, he had regrets.
He headed to the door, knowing he needed to escape his thoughts as they weighed heavily on him.
He quietly padded down the hallway lit by a small lamp on the table near Silas’s bedroom. It was comforting to see some things never changed. Lane had always wanted his boys, if for whatever reason came out of their bedrooms at night, didn’t encounter darkness.
Booker’s bear had no problem with moving in the dark, but he’d discovered Silas suffered with night blindness. He didn’t sleep in the dark because he had trouble going from light to dark, his eyes didn’t adjust well. The glasses he’d worn as a child were now contact lenses, so people didn’t know of his problem.
It was a weakness that Silas hated and one he had blamed on being divergent until Lane had made a point of finding evidence to disprove that notion. That shifters could—and did—suffer from the same condition.
Silas… they hadn’t spoken since they’d laid hands on each other the week before. Going away had given Booker breathing space… despite the unexpected kick in the teeth from the awfu l discovery of chained omegas in a basement not fit for rats.
At the bottom of the stairs, he tilted his head, listening out, sure he could hear someone moving around. Keeping his steps light, he headed in the kitchen's direction and stopped in the doorway at the sight of Popi setting out two mugs and, by the smell of it, making Booker’s favorite hot chocolate.
“How do you do that?” he asked resignedly, coming into the room when he realized he’d woken Popi up. His feet chilled on the cold tiles, but he didn’t question that Popi was indeed making hot chocolate for him. It wasn’t the first time he’d had a bad dream and come down to find Popi there, waiting for him with his favorite drink.
“I’m a mind reader,” he said, keeping a straight face for all of three seconds when Booker rolled his eyes at the silly response. Popi grinned and nodded to the seat he had placed at the front of the counter so Booker could sit right opposite him as he stood in front of the stove. “I know my boys. Sit, talk to me.”
It had been years, and still this man could ease his troubled heart. “I had a fight with Silas.” He went there first, not sure he could talk about what he’d shared with Derick when he’d gotten home last night. Not yet, not when Popi had such a sensitive soul.
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Popi added three enormous lumps of chocolate to the milk he was heating in the pan.
Booker’s mouth watered as the chocolate melted into the milk releasing a heavenly smell, distracting him for a moment. The tap on the counter top brought his attention back to Popi. “What’s different this time?”
He slumped in his seat and dropped his eyes to the counter, where he used a fingertip to rub at the marble, trying to figure out how to evade answering directly. “We fought over a guy—an omega.”
“Do you both like this omega?”
“It’s not like that,” he mumbled, hating having to explain how overhearing part of a conversation brought about the epic fight he’d had with Silas.
“Then what’s it like, tell me,” Popi encouraged, stirring the milk and chocolate mix.
He sucked in a breath, blew it out, then found himself going with the truth. “I overheard Ziggy talking to Frey about a problem he was having. Only I didn’t hear all the conversation—”
“You mean you didn’t clarify what you overheard,” Popi pointed out, giving him a sympathetic smile.
Booker cringed on the inside. “Possibly… I don’t know for sure.”
He didn’t. As much as he’d glued himself to Frey, he’d been no closer to discovering what was going on. He’d checked that the trip away hadn’t coincided with any days off Frey would need to take for his heat. So whatever was happening between the pair hadn’t happened yet. If he discounted the fact Ziggy had taken Frey to a sex club. A sex club… to the bear gods, what was the man thinking, letting his little fox into a den like that?
“What do you know? ”
Popi’s question diverted his attention, and he scowled at the simmering pan.
“What I know is that what I heard made me mad. You know, the way I need to blow off steam.” Popi nodded, offering that wonderful, understanding smile as he stirred the pan. “I went to see Silas.”
Booker wanted to bury his face in his hands, recalling how mad he and Silas had been at each other. “I stupidly blurted out that Ziggy was fucking Frey—or offering to. A big difference when it appears that there is something going on between Ziggy and Silas.”
That was the only conclusion that Booker could come to when Silas wasn’t speaking to him, or Ziggy for that matter. He’d caught Ziggy attempting to talk to Silas, and Booker had recognized the wall that Silas used when he was protecting himself.
“Not that he’d so much as mentioned it to me. Not once, so in my defense, how could I be to blame for firing up Silas when I didn’t know in the first place they were doing whatever it was they are doing?” He grumbled, building back up a head of steam. He grew more and more furious that he’d been unable to deal with his frustration at upsetting Silas—his brother, because a big part of his anger he aimed at himself.
He slumped forward and banged his head on the counter. “It is all very fucking confusing. How the hell did I get myself into these situations? Why can’t folks just be honest about what’s going on in their lives? Tell me,” he groused .
Popi’s laughter brought his head up. “It’s not a laughing matter, Popi!” His eyes narrowed on the man, giving off a vibe of someone who looked way too pleased by the situation. “How did I get myself in this situation!” he demanded in utter exasperation.
Popi filled a mug with the steaming, divine smelling liquid and gave Booker a beautiful smile.
“Because you’re such a wonderful, helpful boy,” he supplied, making Booker push the mug aside to bang his head back on the counter again, embarrassed enough to blush at the words he’d never gotten used to coming out of Popi’s mouth, despite how they warmed his chest.
“Stop that, you silly boy, you’ll hurt yourself. Drink up your hot chocolate, it’ll make you feel so much better.”
He scowled as he lifted his head. “Helpful… I’m a damn sap, is what I am.”
Rich, deep laughter came from the doorway behind him, and Booker held back the curse word when he glanced back to see Dad. “Who is turning you into a sap, son?”
Booker didn’t answer because of how amused Dad was.
Wearing only pajama bottoms, he ran a hand through his graying chest hair as he came to a stop at the counter and eyed the hot chocolate Booker hadn’t touched. “I thought this might be what you were doing when I woke to an empty bed.”
Booker reached out and nabbed his mug, seeing the interest in Dad’s eyes. “Popi made it for me.” He took a sip to make his point, then made an appreciative sound when the flavor hit his taste buds .
Dad smiled widely at Popi, and without asking, the mug slid over the counter. “We can share it,” Popi said as Dad lifted the mug and sniffed.
“Yeah.” He drank a sip and made a similar noise to Booker.
Their gazes met, and they grinned at each other. “There are perks to you being back under the same roof, Booker.”
Booker gave an exaggerated huff. “Is that the only perk to me being home?”
Dad didn’t answer straight away as he went and grabbed a stool to sit next to Booker. He took another sip before relinquishing the mug.
He glanced sideways at Booker, raising a brow. “So, who has turned my boy into a sap?”