Page 35 of Without Fail

Tristan glanced up from his game. “I didn’t drag the cans down yet.”

“There’s time before dark.” He wandered around his son’s room until he ended up at the closed blinds of the window. He twisted the rod to open them.

“It causes a reflection on my screen,” Tristan said, placing the game aside.

“Too much of any one thing is not good.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“A hundred times.” He smirked and Tristan snorted with a smile.

“What’s up?”

“I brought a guest home.”

“A girl,” his son spat, looking like he was going to explode.

“No. A sixteen-year-old boy who’s…having a hard time.”

That took the wind out of Tristan’s anger and his son tried to look nonchalant, but Marshal could tell he was curious.

“Why?”

“You’ll see when you meet him.” He turned toward the door. “Grandma is making pancakes.”

That got Tristan off the bed. His son was already over six feet tall and with the work on the property and visits to the gym, the boy was muscled.

“She’s making pancakes for a newcomer?” Disbelief filled Tristan’s voice. “This I gotta see.”

His son stalked out of the room, reminding him so much of himself that Marshal stifled a laugh and followed the boy’s tall, muscled frame down the hall.

Reaching the kitchen entry, Tristan froze in place. Marshal walked around his son and into the room to take a seat on one of the stools at the massive breakfast bar.

The scent of bacon filled the air and his mom chatted away with Cohen at the stove. The twins were busy getting in the way, but it was on Aspen that Tristan’s eyes had locked.

Marshal saw the flare of his son’s nostrils and then the brief flicker of rage. Tristan had been around violence prior to Marshal gaining full custody of his son, but that was something that couldn’t be changed.

Perhaps Tristan’s past would help Aspen. He didn’t know, so he watched as the scene unfolded.

Aspen looked like a deer caught in the headlights with sheer terror beneath Tristan’s glittering gaze. The boy stood nearly a foot shorter than Tristan and had nowhere near the body mass of his son.

“Howdy,” Tristan drawled and walked across the kitchen to offer his hand out to Aspen.

A minute went by, but Tristan didn’t lower his arm until Aspen tentatively placed his slender hand into his.

“Hi.”

“I hope the fucker’s dead,” Tristan growled, running his eyes over Aspen’s face, not releasing his hand.

“Tristan,” Marshal snapped.

“Tristan!” Betty admonished.

“Sorry,” his son muttered and Cohen laughed.

Everyone glanced at Cohen, who shrugged. “You sound so much like Marshal, it’s funny.”

“Fucker!” Colin parroted and Marshal groaned, snatching his young son up into his arms.

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