28. Huck
HUCK
The light in the room is still blue-gray when I feel her slip in beside me.
Soft feet, soft breath, softer than anyone else in this house ever manages to be.
Bailey. I don’t need to open my eyes to know.
I know her weight on the mattress, the way she smells faintly of vanilla and coffee grounds, the way she hesitates for half a beat before she climbs into my space like she’s afraid she shouldn’t.
I’m already half-hard. Been dreaming about her anyway. I don’t make her wait. She straddles me, and I fill my hands with her hips, guiding her down until I’m inside. She gasps, muffling it against my neck, and I have to grit my teeth to hold back the sound that wants to come out of me.
It’s good. It’s so damn good. But pain spikes through my arm the second I flex wrong. The cut, the stab wound from last week, it pulls sharp and hot under the fresh wrap. I bite it back, keeping my face smooth, letting my other arm take the weight. I can’t let her see.
She rocks against me, chasing her release, and I keep the rhythm steady, steady, steady, even while sweat breaks out across my back from more than just the effort.
Her gaze slides over me, so I roll her onto her back.
It wrecks my arm, but keeps her distracted, and that’s all I care about.
I use the edge of the mattress for leverage, pulling myself deeper into her tight body.
Her nails scrape down my back, almost taking me with her over the edge.
But then her breath catches, and she’s shuddering hard, muffling her cry in my shoulder so she doesn’t wake the whole house.
I hold her through it, and when she goes weak against me, I kiss her temple. “That was just for you,” I murmur. “Don’t worry about me.”
“But you’re still hard?—”
I smirk. “Yeah, you have that effect on men.”
She blushes. Fuck, how can she blush after that? “I want to make you feel good.”
“You have the kids’ breakfast to make, don’t you?”
She lifts her head, blinking down at me like she wants to argue. She sighs and presses a quick kiss to my mouth and whispers, “I’ll be back,” before slipping off the bed.
I let her go, watch the sway of her body as she pulls her shirt back on, then the quick patter of her bare feet down the hall.
I roll onto my side and tug my arm closer to check it.
The bandage is dark, wet. Damn it. Thank fuck she didn’t turn on the lights.
I peel it back fast and hiss. Fresh blood, sluggish but steady, the cut reopened.
“Should’ve gotten stitches,” I mutter on my way to the bathroom, my own voice harsh in the quiet. I press a towel over it, breathing through the sting. “Too late now.”
The wound isn’t killing me, but it’s not healing right either. That’s the problem with some things—they linger. They don’t close when they’re supposed to. They fester, stay open, remind you of what you’ve let slide.
Like David.
I dig through the drawer until I find the roll of bandages Wesley shoved at me yesterday. He gave me that look when he did it, the one that says he knows damn well I’m not doing this right but he’s too tired to fight me.
The gash is ugly. Jagged. Every time I flex, it pulls open a little more. I pour alcohol over it and grit my teeth, the sting burning up my arm and down into my chest. I’ve been hurt worse. That’s the excuse I keep repeating. The truth is, worse doesn’t matter.
I wind the new bandage tight, tighter than it probably needs to be, watching the white turn pink, then red, then back to white again as I overlap.
My fingers work on autopilot. I’ve wrapped too many wounds in my life to need to think about it.
By the time I pin the edge down, I’m sweating harder than I want to admit.
I keep hearing David’s voice in my head.
Smooth. Smug. Talking about Eli “falling.” I see Eli’s cast every time I close my eyes.
I see Maeve’s face when she whispered to Wes about David and her period.
They didn’t know I was watching, listening.
No one suspects a big guy of being stealthy.
I see Bailey, trying so damn hard to be strong in front of her kids when she’s breaking inside.
The thing about rot is, it spreads. If you don’t cut it out, it takes everything else down with it.
I flex my hand, blood prickling under the fresh wrap, and let myself picture it. David on the ground. My hand at his throat. The smugness gone from his eyes for once. Just fear, clean and sharp, the way he’s made everyone else feel.
The thought settles into me like a stone in a still pond.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, the house smells like toast and eggs. Bailey’s at the stove, hair twisted up, moving too fast for this early. Maeve sets plates on the table, her braid swinging. Eli sits quiet, his cast awkward against the edge of the counter.
Bailey glances at me, and her face softens just for a second before she turns back to the pan. I give her a small nod. She doesn’t need to know how much my arm is throbbing. She doesn’t need more to worry about.
I grab a mug and pour coffee. The heat steadies me, bitter and sharp on my tongue.
I’m fine, I tell myself. Always fine. The pain is background noise, same as it’s always been.
I drink the rest of my coffee, but my eyes keep drifting to the gate camera feed on my phone.
I know the schedule too well. David will be here soon.
The guard outside radios in when the sedan turns onto the drive.
Sean straightens immediately, jaw set, his hand resting on the back of Bailey’s chair like a warning to anyone who’d think about pulling her away.
Wesley steps closer to the kids, smiling like it’s casual, but his eyes are sharp as glass.
I move to the door before the bell even chimes. Habit. Instinct. The bastard doesn’t get to stand here a second longer than necessary.
The SUV stops in the drive, smooth and shiny, the kind of car you buy to show people you’re winning. David climbs out like he’s stepping onto a stage, sunglasses on, smile already in place.
I imagine it with fewer teeth.
The back doors open. Maeve and Eli shuffle forward, shoulders tight, their eyes flicking between their parents.
Bailey kneels, smoothing Eli’s hair, kissing Maeve’s cheek, her hands lingering like she’s trying to memorize them in case this is the last time.
My chest tightens at the sight, at the quiet desperation in her face.
David stands back, pretending patience. He adjusts his cuff links, checks his watch, glances at the house like he’s mocking it. When his eyes land on me, he smirks. “Expecting trouble?”
I don’t answer. Sean steps in instead. “Preventing it.”
David tsks, tilting his head. “Always so dramatic.”
My hands flex at my sides, itching to ball into fists. It would be so easy to end him right here, to wipe that smug expression off his face.
Not in front of the kids.
Bailey hugs Maeve again, her voice breaking when she whispers, “Call me, okay? Every night.” Maeve nods, her eyes shiny, before slipping into the car.
Eli follows, clumsy with the cast. David doesn’t help him, just waits, tapping his phone like the whole exchange is wasting his time. When Eli stumbles, Sean takes a step forward, but Eli catches himself, ducking his head.
“Watch your step, son,” David says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough for all of us to hear. My gut twists. It’s not advice. It’s a threat.
Bailey stiffens. Wesley mutters something under his breath sharp enough that I know he’s one breath away from exploding. I stay where I am, because if I move, I’ll do worse.
David looks at Bailey last, his smile polished and cruel. “Don’t worry so much. Kids are more durable than adults.” The flicker in his smile rings the threat loud and clear. He pulls away, not a moment too soon.
Bailey presses her fists to her mouth, her shoulders trembling. Sean pulls her close, murmuring low, steady words against her hair. We walk her into the house. Wesley stalks into the ops room, muttering curses, his fists clenching and unclenching.
I stand in the doorway, staring after the car long after it’s gone, my jaw aching from how hard I’ve been clenching it.
David took his kids and smirked at us like none of it mattered. Like he hadn’t hurt them, like he hadn’t tried to break Bailey. Like he could keep doing this song and dance routine until one of his hired hands hits the mark.
The fury in me burns hotter, sharper, until it feels like a second heartbeat. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
The house feels hollow after the kids are gone.
Breakfast dishes still sit on the counter, coffee cooling in mugs nobody finished, but the noise—the weight of Maeve and Eli filling the rooms—has disappeared.
Bailey shuts herself in the kitchen, scrubbing at pans like they insulted her, her shoulders tight, her face turned away from us.
Sean keeps close, murmuring low so only she can hear.
Wesley stalks from one room to the next, pacing like a caged animal, muttering under his breath.
Me, I plant myself in the ops room and wait. I’ve learned patience the hard way. You don’t push the moment until everyone else is ready to face it.
It doesn’t take long. Sean suggests Bailey take a nap after she finishes cleaning, and she agrees. Then, he joins me in ops. Only moments later, Wesley storms back in, slams his hands down on the table hard enough to rattle the equipment. “This is bullshit.”
Sean glances up. “Agreed.”
“I want that smug bastard ruined ,” Wesley spits. “Standing there, smiling, acting like he owns them. Like he owns Bailey.”
“He doesn’t,” Sean says.
“Not legally. Not morally. But right now, in their heads, he still does. That’s the problem.” Wesley starts pacing again, hands clenched. “We can’t just sit here and wait for him to screw up worse. We should be tearing him down. Expose him. Show the world what he really is.”
Sean shakes his head. “That takes time. Court filings, judges, evidence. It means Bailey testifying, the kids dragged into it. He’ll spin it, make himself the victim.
Meanwhile she’s still here, vulnerable, with a target on her back.
And she’ll end up where she never wanted to be—with the kids learning what their father did to her. ”
“So what?” Wesley snaps. “We just play defense forever? Let him keep hurting them until the system maybe decides to care?”
“Defense keeps them alive and keeps the kids ignorant, which is what she wants.” Sean’s voice sharpens. “It’s not glamorous, but it works.”
I lean back in my chair, watching them circle each other. They’re both right, and both wrong. Defense can’t hold forever. Information won’t cut deep enough, not fast enough. David isn’t just a problem. He’s rot.
And rot spreads.
So I clear my throat. “Or we could just kill him.”
The words hang heavy for a beat. Sean’s head snaps toward me, eyes dark. Wesley freezes mid-pace.
“I’ve said it before, Huck.” Then Sean exhales through his nose. “We don’t do that anymore.”
“This isn’t the Navy,” Wesley echoes, almost automatically. “We’re not deployed. We’re private security now. We operate within the law. No matter how fucking annoying the law is.”
For a moment the room is quiet, the air thick. Then all three of us glance at each other, the weight of the words settling in.
We pause.
I grin. Wide, teeth flashing.
And then we all laugh. Harder than we should. Longer than we should. Because the truth is, none of us believe it’s off the table. Not anymore.
Sean wipes his eyes dry, still chuckling low. Wesley shakes his head, muttering something about how insane we are. I lean forward, my grin still fixed.
“Not saying we’ll do it today, but one day? Maybe. If the law doesn’t handle it, if defense doesn’t hold, if your intel game doesn’t stick?” I shrug. “We’ll cut out the rot. Once and for all.”
Sean doesn’t argue. Wesley doesn’t either. We just sit there a little longer, letting the laughter fade, knowing damn well the idea’s not going anywhere.
Sean sighs. “For now, we’ll play ball. We’ll cover Bailey, shield the kids, run the perimeter and watch every shadow. We’ll let David think he’s still winning. But one day soon, if the balance tips…?”
Wesley nods once. “Killing him won’t be off the table.”
Relief washes through me. I’m glad to know my boys are on board, because I’ve got nothing else. But then I remember the horrified look on Bailey’s face the first time I brought it up. Not good.
I shrug. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?”