Page 87 of Their Broken Legend

“Yes, Hothead. I have your number.”

Stepping back, I rap my knuckles on the top of the car to stop from pulling her from it, pushing her to her knees, and getting a prime view of what her eyes do when she is gagging on my cock and drooling all over my piercings.

As the Mazda rolls away, I snap a picture of the license plate and send it to one of our men. He’ll get me all the details on this Mac character.

Possessiveness expands my muscles, urging me to run after the car, go with her to meet her father merely to tell him to fuck off, and then demand she stays here. With me.

The white car disappears around the corner. My body vibrates with anxiety and discomfort. I lean against the brick pillar, eyes roaming the front gates with pathetic longing.

So,this is what love feels like… Huh. It’s fucking distracting. It ignites a predatory need inside me. To hold her. To know where she is and what she is doing at all damn times. To keep her. I want toseeher—the slope between her nose and her upper lip, the caramel swirls in her hair, her getting dressed, showering, sleeping.

I’m obsessed.

I thought my brothers were fucking mad…

But here I am.

Wanting to strap a damn dog collar around her throat that zaps her every time she tries to leave the yard. My cock thickens at the thought. That’s a damn inconvenience, too. She is sex on fucking legs, and my greedy cock is insatiable without her natural perfume enveloping me and when it is—

Fuck.

—Feral.

Tearing myself away from the deserted driveway, I head back inside. The eerie quiet rolls around me, sliding into my muscles. Hate it. It’s not the solitude that unnerves me, but the stillness that accompanies it.

Like being locked in a wardrobe.

Forcing that from my mind, I wander to the kitchen but stop as I pass the hallway toDad’sroom.

If I go inside, will half his closet be empty?

I remember it so well as a child. Finding my way in there, wanting protection from Mum, only to discover empty hangers swaying as if Dad had only just ripped the apparel from them in a rush.

Maybe he’s like me.Maybe he needs to keep moving or the pain will catch him.

But I’m a grown man; I don’t need him. Not to help me decide what to do with this diagnosis. Not to hold my hand through it. I know what to do. Move on. Coach, maybe. Travel, perhaps. Just stay active, so my skin can’t crawl, too hot and fatigued to bother me.

I could take Kaya and see the world. I’ve got the money. Pack all her Sylvanians in that leather case with the flippy straps. Watch her unleash her quirkiness, carefree, and play without expectation. Then fuck her like a woman. Fuck her like I box. Hard. Fast. Wet. Messy.

“Dad gone?”

Gripping the orange juice that I must have grabbed while deep in thought, I spin around to see Max filling the kitchen doorway. Above his elbows, his white shirt is bunched, showing forearms the size of my goddamn thigh—my brother Max is a beast. Like our father used to be.

You left, dickhead.

I don’t say it aloud. The thought alone was an obvious and emotional one. Both sentiments Max has no time for. “I haven’t looked but he’s not here, mate. You know, he blames himself for my broken brain,” I state simply, sipping the orange juice and leaning back on the counter. Max’s response is his signature grunt.

He strolls over, rounding the large marble island bench to lean opposite me, mirroring my position with his feet crossed at his ankles.

He’s here for me.

The need to be real rises. I ram it down. I ignore his vibe, the way his furrowed brows aren’t apathetic for once, tight lips aren’t sneering, and his gaze isn’t bored but, instead, dedicated to me in a way that kicks inside my chest.

As the silence stretches, an internal debate rolls within his gaze. After several moments of our brotherly stare-off, he breaks it. Completely out of character for him. Getting words from Max is like pulling a bone out of a starving dog’s locked jaw—usually. “She’s why I hit the bag, too.”

My shoulders deflate.

Doubt it’s the same, mate.

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