Chapter 23
Decker
I’m on my feet before I know what I’m doing.
The urge to avenge—to protect—surges through me with an intensity so explosive I can’t harness it.
My fist is driving into the wooden railing that lines the deck before I can stop myself.
The smooth stained wood splinters on impact. But one hit isn’t enough. I’m wound too tight, my fury too strong.
I wasn’t there. I couldn’t have known. It was impossible for me to protect her back then.
But fuck if I didn’t contribute to her more recent suffering.
Her words reverberate in my skull, bouncing around my brain as I pound against the railing, relishing the pain as punishment for my role in all that’s gone down since she moved to Lake Chapel seeking the fresh start she deserves.
Every hit.
Every shockwave radiating through my knuckles and wrist.
It’s not enough.
Nothing could ever be enough. Not in comparison to what she survived.
I’m in an echo chamber of despair. Unseeing. Unhearing. Unable to make sense of anything aside from the soul-deep need to make things up to her—to make them pay.
I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Not until my arm is caught mid-swing, breaking the rhythm of my jabs.
Panting, I flex my hand into a fist. Pain radiates through my knuckles and up my forearm. But it’s not enough. It’s fucking nothing compared to what she’s been through—what she’s survived.
“Cool it, Cap.”
I practically jump out of my skin at the sound of Greedy’s voice in my ear. Frantically, I turn, looking for my guys.
They’re on their feet. All three of them.
They’re surrounding her, offering support.
Kendrick’s arms are draped over the back of her chair, his head bowed in anguish.
Locke is hovering close to one side, brushing a tatted hand up and down her arm.
Kylian’s on his goddamn knees, his chin propped on his hand, murmuring soothing words I can’t make out over the whooshing of blood in my ears.
I would ridicule just how far gone he is for this girl if I wasn’t itching to take his place at her feet.
Greedy squeezes my bicep, calling my attention back to him. “I get it, brother. I do. But punishing yourself will only hurt her more.”
His words are low, just for me. His tone is placating, but not condescending. There’s a sense of truth and understanding in his delivery—as if he knows from experience what it’s like to blemish something so pure and beautiful and then keep fucking it up over and over again.
Louder, he lifts us both out of the despair that’s threatening to take hold.
“I want to beat your ass tomorrow because I earned it, Crusade. Not because you fucked up your throwing hand.”
Then, softer, with his fingers still wrapped around my upper arm, he asks, “You good? She needs you to get it together.”
Sucking in a jagged breath, I nod.
I’m loath to admit it, but Greedy’s right.
I can’t punish myself for not protecting her back then. I can’t blame myself for triggering her trauma when I had no context for what she’s endured.
What I can do is course correct, get my shit together, and lead our family the way they deserve to be led.
My hatred will keep.
The opportunity to pivot will not.
If I’m going to make this up to her—to stop hurting her once and for all, and to be part of the new story she’s writing—I need to rise above my baser instincts and be the man she needs.