Chapter Twelve
~ Danny ~
I gripped the edge of the seat as Burke pulled into the courthouse parking lot, my stomach doing a nauseating flip that had nothing to do with morning sickness and everything to do with the building looming ahead of us.
The morning air bit at my cheeks through the half-open window, crisp and cold with the promise of an early frost, but it wasn’t the temperature making me shiver.
I couldn’t stop staring at the courthouse—all that stone and glass and authority—knowing that inside, my brother was waiting.
His bail hearing had been set back a few weeks when he got into a fight in his cell and sent another inmate to the hospital.
Hopefully, that would add to his time behind bars.
Burke’s hand found mine across the console, warm and solid and real. “You okay?” he asked, voice pitched low like we were already in a place where voices carried consequences.
I nodded, then shook my head. “No,” I admitted. “But I’m doing this anyway.”
He squeezed my fingers, not saying the obvious: that I didn’t have to. That I could wait in the car, or at home, or anywhere else while he and Rawley handled the hearing.
He knew me better than that.
My free hand drifted to my stomach, still flat beneath my hoodie, but holding everything that mattered now. Our baby. The thought still made my head spin if I lingered on it too long—that somewhere inside me, cells were dividing, a heart was forming, a future was taking shape. Our future.
A future Dennis would try to destroy if he got the chance.
The tremor started in my fingers, then spread up my arms to my shoulders, until my whole body was vibrating with it. I clenched my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.
Burke killed the engine but didn’t move to get out. Instead, he turned to face me, his eyes serious in a way they rarely were. “Listen to me,” he said. “Whatever happens in there, whatever the judge decides—we’ve got a plan. You’re not going back to that house. Not now, not ever.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The nausea was back, a sick, rolling wave that had me pressing my palm harder against my stomach. Eight weeks along, and the morning sickness showed no signs of letting up. Or maybe it was just fear, dressed up in physical symptoms I couldn’t control.
“Hey,” Burke said, catching my chin with gentle fingers. “Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. That’s it.”
I followed his lead, drawing air in slowly, then releasing it even slower. The technique worked for about three seconds before my lungs seized again, tight with the memory of Dennis’s fist connecting with my ribs, the crack that might have been the sound of something breaking.
“It’s okay to be scared,” Burke said quietly. “But don’t let him win before we’ve even started.”
I closed my eyes, letting his words wash over me.
He was right—I’d spent my whole life being afraid of Dennis, of what he’d do if I stepped out of line, if I tried to leave, if I showed any sign of having a life that didn’t revolve around his moods.
That fear had kept me alive, in its way.
But it had also kept me small, kept me from seeing past the next beating to a future where I might actually be happy.
Not anymore.
I opened my eyes, meeting Burke’s steady gaze. “I’m ready,” I said, and was surprised to find I meant it.
He studied my face for a long moment, then nodded. “Then let’s do this.”
We got out of the truck together, the cold air hitting me like a slap. I zipped my hoodie higher, wishing I’d brought a heavier coat. Burke shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around my shoulders without a word, the warmth and his scent wrapping around me like armor.
“I’m not cold,” I protested weakly.
“You’re shaking,” he pointed out, then slung an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to his side. “Come on. Rawley’s probably already inside, saving us seats.”
We started across the parking lot, my steps slowing as we approached the wide stone steps leading up to the courthouse entrance. My palms were slick with sweat despite the chill, my breathing shallow and quick. Each step felt like walking toward the edge of a cliff.
“Remember when I told you about the time he broke my fingers?” I asked suddenly, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “I was sixteen. He caught me filling out a college application online. Said if I was smart enough for college, I was smart enough to type with one hand.”
Burke’s arm tightened around me. “I remember.”
“He made me watch while he did it,” I continued, the memory rising sharp and clear. “Held my hand flat on the kitchen table and used a rolling pin. One at a time, starting with the pinky. Said it would ‘build character.’”
I felt Burke go rigid beside me, a low sound rumbling in his chest that wasn’t quite a growl. “He won’t touch you again,” he said, voice tight with barely controlled rage. “I swear to God, Danny, if he so much as looks at you wrong—“
“I know,” I cut him off. “I know you won’t let him.”
But the fear was still there, a cold stone in my gut. Because Dennis had always found a way—around rules, past locks, through whatever barriers people tried to put between us. He’d promised, over and over, that if I ever left, he’d find me. That he’d make me sorry.
And now he had more reason than ever.
My hand moved to my stomach again, a gesture that was becoming habit. Protect. Defend. Keep safe. The instincts were new but powerful, rising up alongside the fear to create something that felt almost like courage.
Burke noticed, his eyes softening. “How’s the little one today?” he asked, deliberately lightening the mood.
I managed a small smile. “Making me want to throw up every five minutes. So, normal.”
He laughed, the sound breaking some of the tension between us. “Kid’s got timing, I’ll give them that.”
We’d reached the bottom of the courthouse steps. A few people were milling around the entrance—a woman in a sharp suit talking on her phone, an older man with a cane making slow progress up the stairs, a sheriff’s deputy leaning against the railing, watching the parking lot with bored eyes.
None of them were Dennis. Not yet.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. My legs felt like they were filled with sand, each step requiring more effort than the last. But Burke was beside me, his hand a warm weight at the small of my back, his presence a bulwark against the tide of fear threatening to sweep me away.
“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 enough to 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.