Chapter 25
They say people black out with rage. Not me. I knew exactly what I was doing. I saw my target clearly—and I knew what I wanted.
I don’t wonder who this bastard is in our house. I know. A dead man.
He doesn’t drop from my first blow. I’m certain he saw it coming and tried to lessen it by leaning back. Still, I caught his jaw, and before he can retreat out of reach, I grab a fistful of his shirt.
“Motherfucker!” he spits, swinging wide.
A normal reaction would’ve been to dodge. Instead, I step in, letting the punch hit awkwardly above my ear. Then I drive my forehead into his and, with years of strength training behind me, hurl him into the wall to my left.
The impact rattles the windows. He’s dazed, but it’s clear he’s had some sort of training, because he’s back on his feet faster than he should be.
He pops his neck, then lunges. His frame matches mine—broad shoulders, solid torso—but the second he slams into me, it’s obvious it’s all for show. Intimidation without bite.
I scoff, hook an arm over the back of his head, force him forward, and drive my knee into his gut. He jabs my ribs, but adrenaline has me numb. All I feel is the rage—pure and consuming—for him daring to lay a hand on Ayden.
“Come on,” I growl, dragging him toward the door. “Can’t have shit in our home.”
Kicking open the screen door, I angle us so I can hurl him straight toward the stairs. My boot slams into his chest before he can grab the pillars for support. The sound of his groan as he hits the ground and rolls is satisfying. Landing flat on his tailbone like that had to fucking hurt.
Only then do I glance behind me, seeing Ayden rushing toward the door.
“Stay inside.”
I don’t wait for a response and stride down the steps. I drive my composite-toed boot into his side, causing him to roll away—more than once—clearly trying to put distance between us.
As he scrambles to his feet, I crack my knuckles, popping each finger against my palms.
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you picked the wrong man to fuck with.”
He stumbles back, nostrils flaring, his skin flushing darker with fury. “I’m his goddamn boyfriend!”
“I don’t give a shit if you’re the fucking Pope.” I advance on him, forcing him to retreat toward the parked black sedan. My truck’s parked tight behind it—on purpose—but in seconds I’m regretting not blocking the cabin instead.
He wrenches open the passenger-side door, digs into the seat, and pulls out a pistol.
“Michael!” Ayden screams.
Of course, he didn’t listen and stay inside.
My eyes lock on the barrel aimed at me. I’ve never been shot, but in my line of work it’s always been a possibility. I’d be a fool not to take it seriously. But backing down? Not happening.
“The second you flick that safety off, you’ll have one chance,” I warn, my voice low. “If you don’t kill me, I’ll take that gun and feed the soil your brain matter.”
For a heartbeat, silence crushes us. No one speaks. The only proof of life is the rise of his chest—and the matching weight of my own breathing.
When his eyes shift from me to the cabin, rage burns away any trace of fear.
“Don’t you fucking look at him.”
Whether it’s my words or something else, his demeanor changes—unhinged to eerily calm. He lowers the gun, lifts his other hand, and rakes it through his chopped, curly hair.
I dare a glance at Ayden—phone in hand, aimed at us both.
Michael’s smile wavers. “What a story to tell when I get home; how you’re fucking your stepbrother, Ayden. I always knew you had issues—”
I take a hard step toward him, but Ayden’s voice cuts through. “Leave, Michael.”
He tuts. “I’m reporting you to the medical board.”
The comment is meaningless, I know Ayden’s done nothing wrong, but the audacity makes my blood boil.
If he weren’t holding that gun, I might already have killed him.
And maybe I’d like to believe I have some morals, that I couldn’t go through with it…
but he touched Ayden. Hurt him. I saw the blood.
Saw him pinning him down. Heard him scream for this bastard to get out.
Boyfriend? Pfft. More like missing ex, if I have anything to say about it.
After another tense standoff, Michael steps back, circling around the car.
I stride to the vehicle and yank open the passenger door just as he slides into the driver’s seat. He clutches the gun tight to his chest, eyes narrowing as I lean in.
“If you ever come here again, I’ll kill you. Speak to him again, I will kill you. If I so much as suspect you’re thinking about him? Guess what—I’ll kill you. See a fucking trend here?”
“Threatening a police officer?” he snarls. “Guess you’re both idiots.”
“Do you understand?!” I shout.
“Get out.” He jerks the gun toward me, eyes hard. “We’re done here.”
I want to smash my fist into his smug face one last time, but instead, I lean back and slam the car door shut.
He pulls forward, makes a hard U-turn, and peels off our property. Only when the sound of his tires fade do I turn and meet Ayden’s gaze.
I can’t quite place what’s in his eyes.
Fear. Pain. A hollow distance between his body and his mind. He’s falling, even while standing upright. His skin has gone pale—paler even than when he was sick.
When he takes a step back, I fear he’ll completely run away from me. His movement jolts me from my stillness, and I stride toward him.
The second his gaze starts to drift away, I say, “Ayden, wait.” I take the three stairs in a single bound. He slips inside, but I’m right behind him before he can head for the staircase.
I don’t touch him. Instead, I move in front of him, blocking the way. The blood streaking his temple makes my hands clench and unclench.
I’m opening my mouth to say something, when he speaks first.
“Are you okay?” His voice trembles. “I’m so—”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” I exhale, the tightness loosening in my chest. “Am I okay? Are you okay?”
I raise my hand toward his face, deliberately slow, watching for a reaction—a flinch, a recoil, anything that might show he’s still shaken. But he doesn’t move. He only looks at my hand, then back up at me.
“Physically, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt.”
I’m calling bullshit. The bruise is already forming, and I’m close enough to see the pulse in his temple beating. I curl my fingers into a fist, fighting the urge to touch him.
“Can I clean you up?”
Saturday night taught me Ayden fears being treated as fragile. Like he’s terrified of falling into some stereotype—that one of us has to be the masculine, and the other the feminine. I’ve never once seen him as the latter. Not ever. But something tells me he’s been conditioned to feel that way.
When he doesn’t answer, I soften my voice.
“Can I?”
I watch his throat bob before he nods.
I lead him into the kitchen, then head to the bathroom for the first aid kit, my phone balanced between my ear and shoulder as it starts to ring.
“Hello, Sapphire Valley security.”
“Hi, this is Keoni Pierce from Wildhart. Did a black sedan with the license plate 728–RLD just leave?”
“Yes, Mr. Pierce.”
“Good. Add it to the no-entry list. The individual’s name is Michael. I’ll give you his last name tomorrow. He is not allowed back on the property.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll pull the surveillance and add his photo to the wall for easy identification by all stationed guards.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up quickly and shove the phone into my pocket.
With the kit in hand and a damp washcloth ready, I return to the kitchen. Ayden is leaning against the dining table, his back to the living room, eyes fixed on the window above the sink. There’s a distance in his gaze so stark it’s almost visible, like a fog hanging over him.
I set the kit and cloth beside him, then turn to the cabinets for a glass.
Neither of us speaks—me for too many reasons, him likely for just as many.
My adrenaline still burns hot, my pulse racing, but I’m not shaking.
Maybe my need to stay strong outweighs the fact that a gun was pointed at me minutes ago.
I down a swallow of water, refill the glass, then turn off the faucet.
When I face Ayden again, I hold it out to him. He lifts his head, meeting my gaze, and without breaking eye contact, takes the cup.
“Thanks…”
“Mhmm.”
Only after a few sips does he rest it in his lap, holding his gaze on it.
I pick up the washcloth, step between his legs—he shifts, spreading them wider to make room—and begin cleaning him up.
“He isn’t my boyfriend.”
Drawing the damp towel along his jaw, wiping away the drying line of blood, I let out an unamused chuckle.
“As I told him, he could’ve been the Pope. I don’t care.”
My other hand settles against the curve of his neck as I continue carefully cleaning around the cut.
“Suppose this was one way to tell you.” He sighs, and I can see he wants to turn away, but I’ve got him positioned so he can’t. “I know you told me not to apologize, but I have to. I’m sorry, Keo—ouch!”
He hisses through his teeth when I brush too close to the cut. It isn’t deep, but those always seem to hurt worse. The gash sits near his eye, forcing it partly closed.
“You did that on purpose…” he mutters.
“Possibly… but what did you mean? One way to tell me, what?”
He shuts his eyes and tilts his head back. I set the cloth aside and rummage through the first aid kit for what I need.
“He’s the reason I never came…”
My hand freezes over the box. A twitch jerks through my fingers, veins rising beneath my skin. Rage floods me at those simple words.
“I should’ve asked for help a long time ago. I wanted to.”
“How long?”
He pauses, and I shift to peer down at him.
“Six years.”
“Ayden…”
“I know… I know… Fuck, I know… Never in my life did I imagine being in this position, and until you are, you have no idea how hard it is to get out...” He shakes his head, teeth clenched. “How embarrassing…”
That’s when he begins to try and pull away, to retreat and close himself off as he has done this entire time. But I’m done letting him push me aside.
“Look at me. I need you to see what I’m saying, not just hear it.”
The second his gaze locks back on mine, I go on.
“I’m going to help you—not because you can’t help yourself, but because I want to. Because I need to.”
The way his eyes search mine before he bites down on his lower lip nearly undoes me. The urge to kiss him is so strong it sparks through my senses, leaving an ache in my chest as I force it back.
“But that starts with you telling me everything, without worrying that I’ll blame or judge you. Whatever you say, I’ll believe you. I’ll keep you safe, Ayden.”
His eyes redden, and I can tell he’s holding back tears, forcing in a deep breath to stop them from falling. He’ll learn I don’t care if he cries.
The only thing I care about is him.
And if that means living a miserable life alone because I can’t have the one person I want, then so be it. But while he’s here, he belongs to no one else—even if he doesn’t realize that yet.