Page 61 of Truck Stop Titan

A wall-shaking bang jolted me from sleep, and I blinked, trying to find my bearings in the darkness, darting my arm behind me to search for Mim.

Muffled shouts came from the kitchen.

More crashes. Grunts. Curses.

Behind me, Mim lay sprawled across the mattress, soft snores rising from her small body.

Another crash. More grunts. Two voices. Maybe three?

Matthew shouted. Glass shattered. The walls vibrated.

Legs tangled in the sheet, I kicked and shimmied until my feet freed, then bolted out of the room, my heart galloping, mind still ten steps behind.

I rounded the corner, heading for the light switch, and smashed into a lone figure, bouncing, then tripping over my feet and landing, ass to hardwood with a teeth-jarring bounce.

“Jesus. Fuck. Sorry, Moriah,” a gravelly voice grunted through the dark. Two hands slipped under my arms and lifted me back to my feet.

“Tito? What the eff?” I cupped my nose, eyes watering from the sting.

I felt for the light switch. Flipped it. Screamed, “Oh my God, Matthew!” Then winced, looking away because Matthew’s face was a bloody mess.

Worse? He was pinned to the wall, feet dangling, eyes bulging, fingers raking at the set of hands clamped around his throat. Hands that were attached to ridiculous, powerful arms. Arms that were attached to broad, bunched shoulders.

Matthew’s eyes darted to mine. He wheezed my name, a plea for help.

Dane shot me a glance over his shoulder, then focused again on his victim, head tilted just a bit, a menacing study of Matthew’s face, which had turned a grotesque shade of purple.

“Dane!” I shouted, storming their way, sidestepping the couch and the broken picture frame.

I grabbed his arm and yanked, my attempt to move the cannon-sized limb futile.

“Gorgeous,” he mumbled, glare drilling holes through Matthew’s skull. “You okay?”

How dare he. How. Dare. He. “Put him down,” I ordered through gritted teeth.

Dane chuckled. Effin’ chuckled. His grip loosened a tad, allowing Matthew a deep inhale, then asked, as if a man’s life wasn’t in his hands, “Where’s our girl?”

“She’s fine. Sleeping.”

“This numb-nuts hurt you?”

“No. God, no. What are you—”

“Let’s move back a bit.” Tito cut me off, hooking an arm around my waist. “In case things get ugly.” His voice, low and menacing, carried a trace of amusement, which only added fuel to my fire.

There was nothing amusing about the situation. Still, Tito was every bit as strong as Dane, and he lifted me with zero effort, moving us safely across the room.

“This isn’t ugly yet?” My question fell on deaf ears.

Shell-shocked, I watched the scene unfold, vaguely aware of Tito’s hand on my shoulder, acutely aware of Dane in all his violent, virile, menacing glory.

“Moriah told you to get out of her house,” Dane snarled, jaw set so tight he vibrated. “So why are you still here, shit-stain?”

Matthew’s mouth worked to no avail.

Dane twisted his head as if to listen, knowing damn well Matthew couldn’t speak, out of fear, self-preservation, or lack of oxygen, I wasn’t sure. What was clear, though, was that Dane was spot on with his intimidation game, with all his bulk, and threatening tone, and brute, bully strength.

“Don’t answer that… I hear any half-witted excuses, I might kill you.”

---