Chapter 31
Zane
I take the porch steps in one stride and, as I cross the threshold, I hear Hope let out a bloodcurdling scream from upstairs.
Redoubling my speed, I sprint upstairs, not caring about being quiet now.
Ideally, I draw this asshole out, away from Hope.
“Get up, you stupid whore,” he snaps from inside Dax’s room. His voice is harsh, wired tight, the consonants bitten off.
I round the corner, filling the doorway.
He’s bent over the bed, trying to get at Hope who is underneath it.
Smart girl.
“Leave her alone,” I snap.
He jerks upright and spins around.
He's younger than I expected—maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Lean, medium height, with close-cropped hair and a wild beard. He's wearing a grey hoodie, jeans, and work boots, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides, every muscle in his body coiled.
“This is a private matter,” he snarls.
He's not huge. He's not physically imposing in any remarkable way. But he’s dangerous as fuck, nonetheless, because of his absolute conviction that he’s right and Hope has wronged him. He believes he's owed. And that belief makes him capable of anything.
“You don’t have any private matters in this house. Get the fuck out.”
He sizes me up, his eyes wild enough that I think he’s gonna lie to himself and think he can take me. “Who the fuck are you?"
"I live here." I move in closer, hoping I can get him to square off with me, dance him around and get between him and Hope under the bed.
I can’t tell if he’s armed yet.
And I want him to feel like he has space to leave. The easiest outcome is the one where he walks out of my house voluntarily. Hopefully, into the waiting arms of the law—or my brothers. I’m not sure which would be worse for him. I don’t care, either. He just needs to get away from Hope.
“This is my house,” I repeat when he doesn’t shift away from the bed. “And you're trespassing."
"I'm retrieving my fucking wife."
“You don’t have a wife here."
His face contorts, like a man who has rehearsed his grievance so many times it's become his entire identity.
"You don't know what she's told you, man. She lies. She lies about everything. She took my kid and ran, and I’ve been—" His voice breaks.
Almost believable. "I've been looking for them for weeks.”
“Keep looking, then. You’ve got the wrong woman here. Keep looking anywhere else, and we don’t have a problem.”
His gaze turns mean. Steely. He thinks he knows more about this moment than I do.
And I’ll give the weasel some credit—he knows more than I thought he did. He knew exactly where she was. He knows how long she’s been here.
But what he doesn’t know makes all the difference.
“You've been helping her, and that's—" He takes a step forward, his fist clenching and unclenching. "That's kidnapping. That's accessory to kidnapping. Fucking bitch didn’t think I knew that she’s pregnant. She wants to hide my kid from me."
My vision goes red at the edges. Kid, singular. Like his genetic material is all that matters to him.
Last fucking chance. "You need to leave."
"Fuck you." He's close now—close enough that I can smell the coffee and stale sweat on him, the sour tang of too many hours in a truck. "She's my—"
“You weren’t married,” I snap. "And I know you don’t have a custody order. Because there isn’t a single piece of paper in the world that says Bellamy is yours. And there isn’t any evidence at all that there’s another child.”
His mouth opens and closes. I've hit a nerve—several of them—and his face cycles through fury, confusion, and something that looks like genuine bewilderment.
He really does believe he owns them. That's the sickest part. In his mind, a piece of paper is irrelevant because his claim is absolute. God-given, maybe. Natural law. The right of a man to his woman and his offspring.
"I raised her when I didn’t have to,” he snarls. "For three years, I raised that little girl. I kept a roof over her head. I fed her—"
"You kept her mother prisoner."
“Is that what she told you? She wanted to be there. She came to me. Pregnant and homeless. I took her in and I gave her everything, and this is—"
"You put cameras in your house to watch her. You took her phone. You didn't let her leave the property." My words are hard now, unyielding.
That’s right, motherfucker. I know more than you think.
I can see in his eyes when he realizes that Hope’s version of events exists outside of his control, that other people know. That I know, a big man, bigger than him. One who will never back down.
"She's a liar.”
"She's the bravest person I've ever met."
"You're fucking her." It's not a question. His lip curls. "Of course. Of course she found some dumb fucking cowboy to—”
I don't decide to hit him. My body decides. The first punch lands clean on his jaw and snaps his head sideways, and the pain that explodes through my knuckles is incredibly gratifying.
He stumbles but doesn't go down. Catches himself on the dresser and comes back swinging—wild, untrained, fuelled by adrenaline and entitlement.
His fist glances off my shoulder. I absorb it, step inside his reach, and drive my fist into his face again, sending him ricocheting off the doorway and into the hallway.
This time, he goes down hard. I'm on top of him before he can get up, my knee on his chest, my hand fisted in his hoodie.
"They aren't your children." My voice doesn't sound like mine. It sounds like something dragged out of the earth, primal and deadly. "You had a chance to be their father and you wasted it."
Blood is pouring from his nose. He's dazed but not done, and I don't register the movement fast enough.
There’s a glint of steel, then a searing pain in my side.
“You fucking prick,” I groan. “Did you just fucking try to stab me?”
I grunt and roll off him, pressing my hand to the wound. My palm comes away wet and dark.
He's scrambling to his feet, knife still in his hand, blood from his nose dripping onto the hardwood floor. He looks half-feral now, cornered and desperate.
The stairs are right behind him.
He could take them willingly.
He won’t.
I try to get up, intent on shoving him down those stairs. I’m a fucking Matthews boy, after all. Deep down. Maybe it’s just what we do.
But there’s another gush from my side, and I can only get to my knees.
He sneers at me and approaches, knife glinting again, still red from my side. “Brought you down, didn’t I? You aren’t that fucking tough, Cowboy—”
From over my head, the air whistles around us and there’s a heavy thud as Dax’s belt collides with Derek’s head.
He howls and rears back. “You fucking bitch.”
Hope yanks me up to my feet with impressive mom strength.
But if she thinks I’m letting her get between me and this asshole, she’s so fucking wrong.
I hold my arm out to the side, stopping her from passing me with that belt.
I know she wants to take another swing.
I can’t let her.
With a roar, I tackle him, sending the knife skittering down the stairs. Following it in a tangle of flying limbs. We bounce off the wall at the landing and somehow stay on our feet, circling each other.
He takes a swing.
Misses.
I grab the front of his shirt, slamming him back against the log wall so hard there’s a satisfying crack. I don’t care if it’s from him or the logs.
His face pales as I lean in, closing the gap between us so he can feel the hellfire in my breath. “They aren’t your children. I’m the only man they’ll call Daddy, and I’ll make sure you’re completely forgotten, you fucking waste of space.”
He jerks in my grip, and from above me, Hope screams. “Zane, he’s got a—”
I catch his hand before he can point the gun at me. Wrenching his wrist so hard I hope he feels that I broke it, I point the muzzle at his own guts and help him pull the trigger.
The shot is so fucking loud, my hearing whites out.
Everything that happens after that is a funny blur.
The back door crashes open. My brother fills the doorframe like a wall of granite. He’s followed by Jasper Lane, gun drawn.
I stagger backwards, my hands up.
Hope races between us, waving her hands. Screaming that it wasn’t me, I wasn’t armed.
Didn’t need to be, still killed him dead, I think distantly before I crumple to the floor.