Page 74 of Deacon

That doesn’t scare me. Bring it on. It’s been a while since I had anyone serious to fuck with.

Shaking out my bruised hands, I move past Jack and reach for my hat. I don’t remember it, but I must have laid it on the bar when I walked in.

“You,” says Jack, shoving his handgun into its holster.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving,” I say.

“No, you give me a blank check for the tables,” he says. “Help me put this shit back together.”

We’ve been here before a few times. He circles the counter and goes to the back closet. When he returns, he’s got a broom and a trash can. We both know the drill and get to work. Jack doesn’t criticize me for what I did, never has. As far as I can tell, he thinks that would be like telling a fish not to swim.

We clean up, and then I write him a check. Then, we both have a shot and I leave. Maybe that wasn’t the smartest choice, but, fuck, do I feel so much better getting it out of my system.

It’s dark outside as I walk through the damp alley and get in my truck. I’m halfway home when my foot hits the brake so hard, the wheels leave rubber burned behind it. My heart picks up. For the first time today, I’m scared.

Without thinking, I turn the truck around and head right for the Hatfield’s house.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

FREYA

I hear the truck before I see the headlights. My stomach aches, the way it always does before something bad happens. In just my night slip with my dressing gown tied tightly over it, I creep down the stairs on bare feet.

Doors slam. Angry boots crunch on gravel. The doorknob turns, but it’s locked. I was here all alone, so I locked it. Aiden curses on the other side of the door, his keys jingling, and then the door is kicked open hard enough that it slams open and hits the wall.

My jaw goes slack as they burst through.

Aiden’s all beat up, a black eye and blood on his chin. His shirt is torn, stained red. Behind him comes Ryland, bruises on his face and blood on his knuckles. Bittern is the last one through, but I don’t think he was part of the fight, because he looks fine. Just sweaty, a little drunk.

I shrink back against the wall. Aiden hits me with a piercing glance as he goes to the kitchen and takes the whiskey from the top cabinet. He slams it on the counter, and Ryland slides over three shot glasses. I shiver, trying to make myself small.

“I’m gonna kill that motherfucker,” Ryland spits.

I whirl to run, so scared, I can’t see straight. This isn’t their normal drunk and angry. This is the gray area where I might get hurt. I need to get out of here now.

“Freya,” Aiden barks. “Get your ass in here.”

My heart drops. They used to get drunk more back home, but it’s been so much better the last few months. The timbre of his voice activates my flight instincts that have saved me time and time again. But I don’t have a choice. I have to obey or risk escalation.

I slip into the doorway, hands behind my back.

“Yes, sir,” I say, voice shaking.

Aiden’s jaw works as he swallows his next shot. I glance at Ryland leaning against the sink with his bloody shirt crumpled in his hand. Bittern sits at the table, eyes down, neck flushed.

I’m sick to my stomach. Aiden’s got a couple different kinds of rage, and this is the worst one. Somebody humiliated him.

“You know people in Knifley,” Aiden says. He takes another shot. “You know them up at Ryder Ranch too?”

I shake my head hard. “No, sir, I don’t.”

He lifts a hand, pointing. “Why do you look like you’re lying, girl?”

“I swear,” I say, voice shaking. “I swear, I don’t know anybody from up there.”

He slams the glass down on the table. “You come here and sit down.”

This isn’t the first time he’s made me sit while he rages. I take a step, but Bittern stands abruptly, head down. He shoves his chair back and circles the table before he grabs me by the elbow. My feet barely touch the ground as he drags me down the hall and out onto the front porch.

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