Chapter 6
Chapter Six
brOTHER KNOWS BEST
HENRY
Fucking brat.
I can’t think of anything but dragging her into my bed, snapping the cuffs around her wrists, and watching her arch for me—defiant, furious, perfect.
I want to make that sweet ass of hers glow red from my hand, feel the heat of it radiate against my thighs while my Songs to Rage Fuck Lou playlist pulses like a war cry in the background.
Each lyric, each beat, matching the sharp smack of skin against skin.
She’d try to wriggle free, spit fire through her teeth, but her body would betray her—soft moans slipping through bitten lips, legs shaking, her hips lifting for more.
Christ, the tension between us is fucking unbearable.
It crawls beneath my skin like barbed wire, makes my blood pump hot and thick through my veins.
My cock throbs behind my zipper, a dull ache that has no patience left.
Maybe it makes me a bastard, maybe worse, but I want to break her.
Want to ruin every inch of that smart mouth and stubborn pride until all that is left is mine.
Not because she gives it easily—but because she fights tooth and nail before finally surrendering.
Fuck, it would be glorious.
I watch her storm up the steps, the sway of her hips a final punch to my gut. Her door slams like a warning shot, shaking the drywall. I stand here breathing like I’d run ten miles, sweat prickling my neck, my hand fisting in my hair as if that will rip her out of my skull.
But Louisiana is a God damn ghost I couldn’t exorcise.
Always there—woven into the cracks of my thoughts, slipping between the seconds, the silence, the spaces where peace is supposed to live.
She lingers like smoke after a wildfire—thick, bitter, impossible to breathe without choking on the memory.
She isn’t just a woman. She is a fucking habit. A high. A hit I take willingly, over and over again.
She haunts me with the memory of sweat-slick skin and blood-red lip prints on my neck.
Of the way she bites her lip when she is close to breaking.
Of the way her voice shakes—half fury, half surrender.
Even the God damn fights are a drug. Every insult, every shove, every time she slams a door in my face only makes me want to kick it down, grab her by the throat, and make her beg for what we both know she wants.
I don’t want peace. Never did.
I want her—loud, angry, half-wild, dripping in defiance.
And I’ll take her again and again, until she stops pretending she doesn’t want it just as bad.
A week has passed since I threatened to handcuff Lou to my bed, and I am still riding the wave of that promise when I push through the front door of The Wild Whisk.
The little brass bell above the frame jingles as I step inside, and the warm scent of fresh-brewed coffee and cinnamon scones wrap around me like a damn comfort blanket.
The clatter of dishes, low murmurs of early risers, and the hum of conversation buzzes beneath soft indie music playing over the speakers.
But what really catches my attention is the sight of my brother and his wife in the middle of what looks like a heated fucking discussion.
Evie is propped against the counter, ankles crossed, one hand cradling her growing belly in that instinctive, protective way pregnant women always do.
Her other hand braces behind her like she is keeping herself grounded, fingertips curled over the edge of the counter.
Maddox looms over her, arms folded tight across his chest, his shoulders drawn up, jaw clenched so hard it looks like it hurt.
To anyone who doesn’t know them, it might look like she is intimidated by him, but we all know better. That idea is as far from the truth as possible.
Nobody can bring my massive younger brother to his knees faster than the five-foot-two powerhouse of a woman standing in front of him.
I’ve seen her do it a hundred times—watch her dismantle his defenses with nothing more than a sharp glance or a well-aimed sentence that slices deeper than any blade.
She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.
Evie is the kind of woman who can make a grown man feel like he’s just been handed his own ass on a silver platter and told to say thank you—and Maddox, for all his size and strength, will just take it. Not because he is weak. Because she makes him better.
I shift my weight, rubbing a hand along the back of my neck as I watch them. There is heat in the space between them, but not the kind that scares me. The kind that comes from knowing each other’s worst days—and still standing close.
Evie isn’t just my sister-in-law; she is a God damn saint. The glue that holds my brother together when he thinks he is beyond fixing. I thank God every damn day that she chose him. That she stayed—even when he didn’t deserve it.
Even after he threatened her.
A memory that hits like a gut punch, cold and sharp. I swallow hard and look away for a beat, eyes skimming the coffee menu overhead even though I’ll get the same fucking thing I always did. Shame creeps up my spine, heavy and familiar.
That moment—that part of their story—is the hardest thing for me to forget.
Evie had forgiven him, somehow. She saw the man beneath all the damage.
Me? I am still trying. Still wrestling with the fact that he knew exactly what our own mother had endured, knew everything Evie had been through—and still sank so fucking low.
But despite all that, he is trying like hell to right that wrong.
And that? That I am fucking proud of. Proud that he is fighting, even if it means breaking apart and putting himself back together piece by piece.
He’s put himself in therapy. No excuses.
No bullshit. Doesn’t blame the grief. Doesn’t hide behind his pain like he used to, wrapped tight like a shroud.
I watch him now—the slight softening around his eyes as Evie speaks, the way his weight shifts, those crossed arms finally unfolding, hands loosening at his sides like her words are chipping away the armor he’s worn for so long. Like she always does.
Maddox will never be the joyful, carefree, over-the-top motherfucker that Merc is—hell, no one can fill that space—but he is different now.
There is a lightness in him, subtle but real, like the air has finally cleared after a storm.
Sometimes, if you catch him just right, he’ll crack a smile—small, almost reluctant—but it is there.
And for Maddox, that is nothing short of a God damn miracle.
The guilt and grief that used to drown him has loosened its grip, fading like a shadow at dusk.
It is something my mother wakes up every damn day grateful for—hell, we all do.
It isn’t just about him finding a sliver of happiness.
It’s about getting our brother back—the brother we thought might’ve been lost to us forever.
“I swear, Maddox Cole, if you change the locks, you’ll be sleeping at your mama’s house,” I hear Evie hiss as I step toward the counter.
Her voice is low but lethal, sharp as broken glass, and it cuts straight through the low hum of the café.
“You need to rest, Evie,” Maddox fires back, his voice tight, lined with that desperate edge only fear can sharpen. “Stop taking on more than you can handle here, and put your fucking feet up.”
The words land with a thud between them. Concern, sure—but wrapped so tightly in frustration it only makes things worse. His tone never matches his heart, but it’s like he can’t hear himself sometimes.
I clear my throat and step forward. “Good mornin’.”
Evie turns toward me, hair slipping from her braids, her face flushed and tired. Not just tired. Bone-worn. The kind of exhaustion that comes from fighting the people you love.
I know that feeling. Know it too damn well.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Henry, think I can convince the judge to pursue charges against him,” she says, jabbing a thumb behind her, “for breaking Trip Waller’s arm?”
I can’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “No, Eves. Maddox already paid his fine for that.”
She rolls her eyes and mutters something under her breath that sounds like, “Should’ve aimed higher.” Then she turns back to Maddox. “You don’t get to control me just because I’m pregnant. I’m not broken.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he grounds out.
“You didn’t have to. You're acting like a warden instead of my husband.”
I see it then—just a flicker—the way his shoulders slump, how his hand twitches like he wants to reach for her but doesn’t know how. Maddox has never been good with soft things. He tries, though. God, he tries.
He loves her more than anything. That much is never in question. But love doesn’t always come out clean, and right now, he can’t see that trying to protect her so fiercely is starting to feel like a cage.
His voice softens, almost breaks. “Look at me, pretty girl,” he pleads, reaching toward her like the distance between them is suddenly too much to bear.
Slowly, I watch her turn and pin him with that unique gaze of hers.
That one brown and one blue eye, reading him like a damn book.
“Maddox, I love you, but this isn’t healthy,” she says, her voice a quiet plea.
“Since you found out it’s a girl, you’ve been spiraling.
She’s fine. I’m fine. Your therapist and I agree, you just need to enjoy this.
Be present in this beautiful experience. ”
Her hand gently places his on her belly, urging him to let go of the fear, to let the joy replace the panic. I watch, feeling like an intruder, unable to tear my eyes away from the tenderness and the pain between them.
I watch my brother soften like a damn stick of butter as she traces the scar across his lips. A twinge of jealousy rockets through me. I’d give my left nut to have what they have. To share that kind of love and watch my woman swell with my baby.