Chapter Two
Andrew
The weight of Slade’s stare presses into me like a physical thing, heavy and unrelenting, disappointment carved so deep into his eyes that I can’t fucking breathe under it anymore.
I break first, turning sharply on my heel and heading straight for the kitchen.
My sneakers scuff against the hardwood, loud in the too-quiet house.
I yank open the fridge, the cold air hitting my face as I grab a can of Coke.
The sharp hiss of the tab echoes through the silence like a challenge.
I bring it to my lips and take a long, noisy gulp, the cold fizz burning down my throat.
I hear him stalk in after me before I even see him.
His broad frame fills the doorway completely, shoulders squared, jacket already shrugged off.
The tight black t-shirt he’s wearing stretches across his chest and arms, muscles corded and tense where they’re crossed over his chest. A few dark strands of hair have fallen over one eye, and honestly, he looks a little murderous right now…
jaw set, eyes dark, every inch of him radiating barely-leashed frustration.
I set the Coke can down gently on the counter, the soft clink somehow louder than it should be. My pulse kicks up as I wait for the explosion I know is coming. The shouting. The lecture. The same tired script we’ve played out a dozen times.
But Slade doesn’t yell. Instead, he moves…
aggressive and decisive. One big hand clamps around my upper arm and shoves me backward toward the kitchen table.
I stumble, dropping into the nearest chair with a grunt, the wood scraping loudly against the floor.
Before I can even straighten up, he’s already at the freezer, yanking out an ice pack and wrapping it in a clean dish towel.
He’s back in seconds, pressing the pack firmly against my swollen eye.
The cold shocks my skin, sharp and immediate.
“Hold it,” he growls, voice rough, leaving no room for argument.
I do as I’m told, fingers wrapping around the pack while he turns to the cabinet where we keep the first aid kit.
He slams it down on the table, the contents rattling inside.
His movements are clipped and angry, as he tears open a packet of antiseptic wipes.
He tilts my chin up with two rough fingers, forcing my face toward the light, and starts cleaning the nasty cut on my cheek.
The sting makes me hiss through my teeth, but he doesn’t soften his touch.
He works methodically, wiping away the dried blood, his breath warm against my skin as he leans in close.
The scent of motor oil and his usual aftershave hits me.
When the cut is clean, he peels open a couple of butterfly strips and presses them carefully over the split skin, pulling the edges together to keep it closed.
His fingers linger a second longer than necessary, calloused thumbs brushing just beneath the wound.
Even after he zips the first aid bag shut with a sharp zip, he doesn’t step back.
He just stands there, staring down at me with that intense, unreadable look…
jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumps in his cheek, eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to see straight through to whatever broke inside of me.
I’m used to the shouting. I can handle the yelling, the lectures, the slammed doors.
But this… this quiet, aggressive care mixed with whatever storm is brewing behind his eyes…
I don’t know what to do with it. It unsettles me more than any explosion ever could.
My stomach twists, heat crawling up the back of my neck as I sit here under his gaze, ice pack pressed to my face, the cut on my cheek stinging in time with my pulse.
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating, until Slade finally breaks it, his voice low and edged with barely contained fury. “Who were you with?”
I swallow hard, the sound loud in my own ears. I stay quiet, knowing damn well he’s not going to like the answer. My fingers tighten around the ice pack still pressed to my swollen eye, the cold doing nothing to ease the heat crawling up my neck.
Slade doesn’t wait long. His hand shoots out, fingers tangling roughly in the back of my hair. He yanks me forward until his face is too close, breath hot against my skin, eyes blazing with the kind of anger that says he’s finally had enough this time. “I asked you a question, Drew. Answer it .”
I mumble it under my breath, barely audible. “Jayden.”
Slade’s grip tightens for a split second. “ Jayden ?”
I nod once, quick and reluctant, my scalp stinging where his fingers are still buried in my hair.
He lets go abruptly, shoving my head back in the process so hard the chair creaks beneath me. I catch myself before I tip over, heart hammering. Slade runs both hands down his face like he’s trying to keep himself from combusting right here in the kitchen.
When he drops them, his expression is pure exhaustion mixed with rage. “Go to your fucking room, kid.”
I stand up warily, legs unsteady, and step around him as widely as I can, keeping as much distance between us as the kitchen allows. My shoulder brushes the doorframe as I slip past. I almost make it out of the kitchen and into the hallway before his voice cracks through the air like a whip.
“Stop!”
I freeze mid-step, every muscle locking up.
Before I can even turn around, I feel Slade’s hand dip into my back pocket.
He pulls out the handcuffs I’d swiped from the station, the cold metal clinking softly as he yanks them free.
Fuck . I definitely regret that now. It had seemed funny at the time…
Paul was walking me out of the holding cells, I was still buzzing with adrenaline from th e fight and the thrill of getting caught, and I’d spotted them sitting at the end of one of the tables.
I’d just slid them into my pocket without thinking, reckless energy still pulsing through my veins.
Now that the high has worn off, the stupidity of it hits me full force.
I hear Slade start huffing behind me, a heavy, frustrated sound. I slowly turn around just in time to see him lunging forward, hand already reaching to grab me by the collar again.
Heart slamming against my ribs, I twist away and bolt for the stairs, boots pounding against the wood as I take them two at a time. “ Shit, shit, shit …”
Slade
The sound of Andrew pounding up the stairs two at a time fuels the fire already raging in my chest. I’m right behind him, taking the steps fast, my heavier frame making the old wood creak and groan under me.
The kid’s panicking, and he damn well should be.
This is the last straw. He didn’t just get arrested again…
he stole handcuffs from the police station.
How the hell did he even manage that? What the fuck is wrong with him?
I’d already taken the little key out and slipped it into my pocket, the cuffs now open and dangling from my left hand like a promise of consequences .
Andrew tries to slam his bedroom door in my face the second he reaches it, but I barge through with my shoulder, the wood slamming against the wall so hard it nearly flies off its hinges.
He scrambles forward, desperate, but I catch his wrists just as he dives onto the bed.
The momentum sends him face-down onto the covers, the good side of his face smushed into the rumpled sheets, knees bent beneath him in a humiliating kneel.
Before he can twist away, I snap one cuff around his left wrist, then the other around his right, locking them together behind his back. I keep his cuffed wrists pinned firmly against the small of his bent-over back with one hand, my grip unyielding.
“You think you’re funny, huh?” I hiss, leaning in close, voice low and dangerous. “Think you’re clever?”
“Fuck… I’m sorry!” Andrew blurts, the words muffled against the bedding.
I let out a bitter laugh that scrapes up from deep in my chest. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. No, you know what you are, Drew?”
He huffs and wriggles beneath me, trying to shift away, his body moving in restless jerks.
That’s when it hits me… the compromising position we’re in.
Andrew’s ass is pressed right against my crotch, the friction from his struggling sending an unwanted spark straight through me.
I swallow hard but don’t pull back. That’s not the point right now.
The point is to put fear in him, to show hi m dominance, because if I don’t, he’s going to think he can keep up this ridiculous behaviour forever.
“You’re an ungrateful little shit,” I growl, tightening my hold on his cuffed wrists. “So your mom left. You think you’re the first kid a parent has bailed on?”
Andrew doesn’t answer. He just keeps wriggling, hips shifting helplessly.
“But you know what most kids don’t have?
” My voice drops lower, rough with disappointment that’s been building for years.
“Someone who decides they’ll let them stick around.
Like I let you stick around, Andrew. I don’t owe you anything.
You ain’t mine by blood, but I gave you a home.
I pay for your clothes, your meals, everything… and you…”
I take in a deep breath, trying not to let the words turn too nasty even though the disappointment burns hot in my gut. Most of his well-behaved friends are either working jobs or already off at college. I’d been giving him time, cutting him slack, but enough is enough.
“Slade… fuck , I’m sorry, okay?” Andrew gasps, voice cracking. “I’ll be better, I swear!”