Page 41 of Craving Consequences

VAN

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He’s at her door. Feet and fist flying, pounding into the wood with the unhinged madness of someone out of their mind.

Even through the clap and rumble of the storm, his screams echo in the early hours of morning.

The names he throws at the barricade, the threats he hurls into the storm set a lit match to my blood, igniting my fury to a blinding rage.

My boots slam into the wet concrete as I break into a sprint. The rain cuts sideways in sheets, soaking through my clothes in seconds, but it’s nothing compared to the white-hot burn under my skin.

I don’t stop to call out. Don’t hesitate.

My hands find the soaked fabric of his hoodie, yank him back with enough force to lift him off his feet, and I throw him.

He slips on the slick boards with a yelp and tumbles down the porch steps like the waste of space he is.

He lands in a sprawl of limbs at the bottom.

Bron Shaw is nothing like his father.

Where Lachlan is forged from grit and iron, a man who builds, bleeds, and stands his ground with quiet conviction, Bron is a parasite.

A hollow shell dressed in expensive clothes and false charm, living off the shadows of the man he’ll never become.

He wears entitlement like a birthright, arrogance like armor, but beneath it all, he’s weak.

Manipulative. Rotten to the core, just like his mother.

My chest heaves, my fists clench tight at my sides as I stalk down the steps after him. The pavement is dark with rain, and the sky groans overhead, but all I see is red.

“Van, what the fuck?” Bron shouts, scrambling up like a cornered rat, his dark hair plastered to his face, his clothes clinging to his scrawny frame.

“You think I’m going to let you show up and beat on her door like some unhinged prick?” I snarl, advancing until I’m towering over him. “Get away from her.”

“Are you serious?” he spits back. “She’s my girlfriend. You can’t tell me—”

“Do you want to bet?” I edge closer and swallow my smirk when he scuttles back. “Is that how you think you should treat your girlfriend, Bron? Calling her disgusting names and kicking her door at six in the fucking morning?”

The muscles of his throat bob and I can almost hear the gulp as it goes down. “It’s none of your business what I do with her. She—”

My fingers fist in his wet collar and I drag him to me until we’re nose to nose. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, fucker. I’m making it my business. I will beat you into the ground if you ever treat any woman like that, but I’ll bury you alive if you ever do that to Everly again.”

He’s breathing hard, not from fear. There is none in his eyes, but restraint. He wants to hit me. He wants to drive his balled fists into my face, but he’s a coward. He knows he’d only get the one hit before I snap him like a twig.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. That bitch—”

I hit him.

It’s satisfying and beautiful watching my knuckles split his lip and send his whole body sailing sideways. The crunch of bones hitting concrete sings through me and I relish it for a whole heartbeat before Lachlan’s in front of me.

“Move,” I warn him.

Friend or not, this is the one time he’s not going to stop me.

“He hit me,” Bron’s shrieking, cupping a hand over the blood oozing down his face. “That motherfucker hit me.” He runs a shaky fist across his bloody mouth. “I’m fucking suing you. I’m calling Sheriff Brewer and—”

“In that case, I better make it worth your lawyer costs.”

Lachlan slaps a hand on my chest, stopping me. He gives me a razor-sharp stare before facing his son. The space between them is closed in two strides and Lachlan has Bron by the front of his hoodie .

“Get back in your truck and go home,” he growls into the boy’s stricken expression.

Wide-eyed and baffled, Bron stares into his father’s face. I don’t think Lachlan has ever put his hands on the prick.

“You’re going to let him get away with this? He hit me!”

“You fucking deserved it,” Lachlan snarls back. “He should have hit you harder for that shit you just pulled. When did I raise you to—?”

“When did you raise me, Dad?” Bron spits blood at their feet.

“Go on, tell me. Was it between the months you left the house every chance you got to get away from your responsibilities?” Lachlan’s hands curl into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t speak.

Bron barks a laugh at his silence. “You left us. Couldn’t even be bothered to care if we lived or died.

Now, you come charging in here like some white knight.

Like you’re going to save the day. Did she call you? Did she beg you to be her hero?”

“That’s enough,” Lachlan warns.

“No,” Bron snaps, eyes burning. “It’s not.

Because you don’t get to show up now pretending to be the man you never were.

You’re not a hero, Dad. You’re just a pathetic, old man who couldn’t keep his wife from fucking half the block, couldn’t save his marriage, couldn’t raise his son.

Now, you’re a sick pervert on top of all that for getting hard for a girl half your age. ”

Fuck this .

I shove Lachlan aside and grab the troll by the throat. With the same momentum, I drive him back straight into the front of his shiny truck.

“Van!”

I ignore Lachlan as I bear down on the flailing worm caught in my clutches.

“Your dad is a fucking saint putting up with you and your viper of a mother. Grow the fuck up and be grateful that at least one parent still wanted you. Sure as fuck wasn’t your mother, was it, Bron?

She dropped you the second the money stopped, and she found a new dick.

Think about that as you get the fuck out of my face. ”

I thrust him towards the driver’s side, certain he’d get the hint and leave.

He springs back like a startled Chihuahua, teeth bared and bloody.

“Bron!”

But Lachlan’s warning is ignored when Bron charges up to me. I think he’s going to throw a punch but his sneakers kick my boots as he goes toe to toe.

“You have no idea what you’ve started. You can’t always be here.”

I don’t bother with a response. I’m not going to play this game with him. He can try to piss me off but he doesn’t realize that it’s not about me. My job is to protect Everly. Period .

Lachlan pulls him back towards the truck door.

Behind me, the porch light flicks on. I hear the door creak open, the soft shuffle of bare feet on hardwood. I don’t need to look to know it’s her.

Everly.

Her presence alone sends a pulse through my chest like a second heartbeat. One that belongs entirely to her.

Bron’s eyes shift, trying to see past me. There is hope and desperation in his bloody expression that shouldn’t exist.

“Everly—”

I block him when he charges out of his dad’s grip.

“Go near her,” I whisper low and deadly, “and I’ll shatter your jaw so badly you’ll have to sip your dinner through an IV.”

He blinks. “You’re fucking crazy.” He cries, gaze pivoting to his father. “Aren’t you going to say something or are you going to stand there and let him—?”

“Get in your car and go home, Bron,” Lachlan cuts him off.

The prick’s bloody chin drops. “You can’t tell me to leave. She’s my girlfriend. I can—”

I’m ready to beat that word straight out of his mouth when sharp punches of light slice through the rain and pins us. The truck ambles up to a stop behind Lachlan’s and I recognize the beige cruiser before the door swings open .

Sheriff Brewer, a burly man with a thick handlebar mustache and a scowl that can curdle milk hops down. I don’t miss Bron’s low mutter of, “fuck sakes,” as the sheriff stalks towards us.

“Gentlemen,” he has to pitch his voice higher than the storm soaking through us, “Damn early for a gathering, isn’t it?

” He nudges his wide brimmed hat back with a knuckle, sending a small waterfall down his back from the collected water.

“Got a call about someone trying to break down Miss Cavanaugh’s door. ”

“It’s a misunderstanding,” Lachlan begins.

But Sheriff Brewer isn’t looking at him. His shrewd brown eyes are fixed on Bron. “Have a tiff, son?”

There is a hatred in Bron’s eyes that is as sharp as glass against the stark, white landscape of his features. The thin, white line of his lips. He’s a man fighting all his demons to keep from unmasking himself to the world.

“She’s being dramatic,” he spits out. “She texted me that we needed to talk, then I got here and she wouldn’t open the door.”

Brewer’s eyes narrow even as a bushy brow lifts.

“I don’t think she meant this early in the morning.

I get maybe you got a little excited and zipped down here, but there is a respectful time for things here in Jefferson.

You don’t take it upon yourself to show up at a lady’s home before dawn to kick down her door.

Now, I was on the phone with Miss Cavanaugh and I could hear you clear as a whistle saying all manner of disrespectful and, well, if I were her father, I’d be having a different conversation with you.

But...” he glances past us to where Everly’s still on the porch watching the cluster in her driveway.

“As it were,” He tips his head back to fix Bron with his disgust, “I advise you get yourself home. Calm yourself down and really think about the kind of man you should be.”

“She texted me!” Bron snarls.

Brewer puts up a hand. “Be that as it may be. Telling someone you need to talk does not mean come over immediately unless they say so. Did she tell you to race over before the sun?”

Bron shifts, gaze drifting to the side. “No.”

The other man nods like he suspected as much. “There you have it. Now, I’m going to ask Miss Cavanaugh how she would like me to handle this situation. I expect that being an upstanding citizen, you will handle any damages you may have caused in a timely manner.”

“Unbelievable!” Bron snarls through his teeth. “I have done nothing wrong. She’s been a bitch for days now and—”