Page 25 of My Ex’s Billionaire Brothers (Forbidden Hearts #5)

HUNTER

I’m up to my elbows in suds, singing—badly—into a wooden spoon while Mrs. Markoff cackles like the birds circling outside.

Her kitchen smells of hickory smoke, pie crust, and something sweet Anya calls “cousin-crack bars”—a pretzel, peanut butter, chocolate and marshmallow concoction that will ruin my macros for a week.

Theo stands beside me in rolled-up sleeves, rinsing casserole dishes with surgical precision.

I keep squirting extra soap just to watch him sigh.

Anya leans against the doorframe, cheeks still pink from fielding about twenty delicate questions from her mom, who’s now “just stepping out” every five minutes to “check the smoker” but really to text updates to whichever neighbor is next in the gossip relay.

I catch Anya’s eye and send her a slow, ridiculous wink.

She rolls hers eyes—and smiles. God, that smile.

I’d wash a thousand deviled-egg platters for it.

Mrs. Markoff sets a stack of mixing bowls on the counter, wiping her flour-dusted hands. “You boys work faster than my stand mixer. Lots of hands make light work, I suppose. I can see why Anya needs more than one.”

“Mom!” Anya’s squeak is the cutest thing I have ever heard. Her face goes cherry-tomato red, her hands flailing. She looks mortified enough to dive headfirst into the dishwasher.

Theo’s mouth twitches. I snort a laugh, sloshing suds over the rim onto my shirt. Mrs. Markoff just shrugs, the picture of innocent mischief. “What? Strong backs, steady hands, and apparently they wash dishes with no complaints? Spare men are clearly a blessing.”

Anya sputters something about modern relationship dynamics and scurries off for clean towels. I lean my hip against the sink and stage-whisper to her mom, “We also come with a lifetime guarantee.”

Mrs. Markoff grins. “Good, because she’s already got Gage out there building fences gratis.”

Through the window above the sink, I catch Gage and Mr. Markoff fiddling with a level by the fence. Gage straightens, meets my gaze, and flicks a thumb-up. I return a sudsy salute. Good sign. If the big guy’s passed the dad inspection, maybe the rest of this weekend won’t go to shit.

I rinse the last mixing bowl, hand it to Theo. He dries it with a crisp shake of the dish towel—seriously, the man could earn a sommelier pin in kitchen etiquette. I’m two seconds from towel-whipping him when a throaty engine growls down the lane.

My grin slides off. A cherry-red Maserati slews to the curb, sun glinting off chrome like a flashing blade. I know that car.

Calvin. My gut drops to floor tile. How incensed must he be to have driven down here for this? Worse, how stupid is he about to be?

Theo’s towel stills. “Hunter,” he says quietly.

“On it.” I strip off the rubber gloves, toss them into the sink.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

My heartbeat slams into my ribs as something goes calm in my mind. Adrenaline has always done that for me. It doesn’t get me hyped like normal people. It’s a balm to my rage. The thing that makes me useful.

Mrs. Markoff glances up, confusion furrowing her brow. “Well, who’s that?”

“Stay here,” I tell her, gentler than I feel. “We’ll handle it.”

Theo and I meet at the doorway. He rolls his shoulders, straightening his collar like he’s heading into a board meeting.

We step onto the porch just as Calvin jerks the car door closed.

He looks immaculate—designer linen uncreased, hair sculpted, aviator sunglasses hiding those dead politician eyes.

The foot he plants on Anya’s parents’ gravel seems to think the ground is his.

“What kind of bullshit do you think you’re pulling?” Calvin barks before we reach him, voice hopping the picket fence of polite volume. “You steal my fiancée and thought you could get away with it?”

“Ex-fiancée,” Theo corrects, calm but steely.

Calvin sneers as he marches toward us. “After the stunts she’s pulled? She’s lucky I decided to come down here for her.”

Ignoring whatever the fuck that means, I step in front of Theo, fists curling. “Cal, turn the volume down. Not your house.”

He points a manicured finger at my chest. “You don’t get to lecture me on courtesy, Hunter. You’re parading her around like a cheap trophy?—”

Behind me the screen door squeaks. Anya’s mom peers out, Anya just behind her. Calvin’s gaze snaps over my shoulder. He pitches his voice louder. “There you are. Running off with my brothers like a common whore?—”

I don’t remember closing the gap. One second Calvin’s mouth is open, the next my palm meets his cheek with a crack that echoes down the street.

He staggers, sunglasses askew. Shock plasters his features as a bright red handprint appears on his cheek.

Somewhere in the distance, a neighbor’s screen door bangs.

“Not now. Not here. Not ever.” I grab Calvin by both blazer lapels, lean close enough he can count the ridges of the scar across my knuckles. “Walk away,” I growl. “Cool off before we finish this in a way you won’t like.”

He jerks free, fury overcoming his good sense. He knows my past as well as any of my brothers do. He knows not to fuck with me or mine, and he’s doing it anyway. I can’t say I feel particularly bad about what might happen next.

Calvin spits, “You think this is over, Hunter? You can’t hide her behind this little freak show.” He shifts his glare to Anya. “You won’t humiliate me like this again.”

I snarl, “She did nothing wrong, you piece of shit. Now leave.”

Gage strides up, eyes on Calvin. Theo steps flank-side, phone lifted—not to film, but to call law enforcement if Calvin gets clever. The tableau’s too much for Mr. Markoff. He grabs his hammer and strides toward us from the fence, cedar dust trailing.

Calvin’s survival instinct must have woken. I watch as he calculates the odds like a machine—three furious brothers, one protective father, plus an audience of gawping neighbors. He rights his sunglasses, mouth curling in something that almost hides fear. Almost.

He backs toward his car. “This isn’t finished.”

“Yes, the fuck it is,” I say. My tone is flat iron.

Gravel spits as Calvin peels off, red taillights flashing in petulant Morse code. Silence rushes in, filled only by cicadas and the distant surf. Screens creak as curious neighbors retreat inside.

My adrenaline floods away, leaving a shaky cold. I turn and find Anya halfway down the porch steps, trembling hands covering her mouth. Her eyes are huge, rimmed with unshed tears and something sharper—embarrassment.

I embarrassed her. Fuck.

Pain shoots through my sternum. All my jokes, my charm—she sees me crack one slap and morph into the thug who spent most of sophomore year in detention for fighting. I never wanted her to see me like this.

These days, I don’t want anyone to see me like this.

I’ve always been angry—about how I was brought into the world, about how my mother treated me like I was an accident, and some of our family did too, about how my father was never around.

All of that fueled my inner fire, and I didn’t know any better when I was a kid.

I liked being known as a thug back then. When you have a reputation for fighting when you’re a teenage boy, it’s cool. It gets you girls, and it scares the right people.

But as a grown man? It’s a liability. It makes you look weak and aggressive and flat-out wrong. That’s why I developed a sense of humor—so I could de-escalate things like this.

Hitting Calvin…I can’t say I regret it. What he called her, why he came down here, that piece of shit had it coming. But doing it in front of Anya and her family was the wrong call.

I swallow, trying to gather my thoughts. “Anya, I?—”

She pivots, bolts into the house. The screen door bangs like a gavel. Mrs. Markoff follows, calling her name.

Theo exhales, rubs his jaw. Gage squeezes my shoulder. “You okay?”

I stare at my palm. “Stupid,” I mutter. My voice cracks. “I just proved Calvin right about me.”

Gage’s grip firms. “You protected her.”

“I embarrassed her,” I counter. The weight of every peeping neighbor’s opinion slams into my lungs. Anya values these people’s opinions, and I just gave them every reason to think she’s gone off the deep end. “They’ll brand her wild. Trashy. Her folks were already uncertain about us.”

Theo tucks his phone away. “We’ll handle perception later,” he says, diplomatic as ever. “Right now she needs comfort.”

Gage nods. “Go after her.”

But my legs won’t move. Shame muffs me like wet sand. Every fight I swore I’d left behind—the broken noses, the adrenaline high—surged back the instant she needed calm, cool heads. Fuck.

Theo grips my arm, voice low. “Hunter. She’s hurt, not by you, but by what Calvin said. Go make her feel better.”

Gage backs him with a single nod. I drag in a breath, nod once, and head up the steps. Behind me, Gage lifts the hammer and returns to the fence. Maybe finishing rails is easier than untangling this new chaos.

Inside, the house is too quiet. Distant cabinet doors close softly—Mrs. Markoff giving space. I find Anya in the hallway near the stairs. She’s braced against the wall, shoulders shaking.

“Sweetheart,” I breathe, “I’m sorry. You deserve someone who doesn’t drive halfway across the country to come yell at you.” I pray she doesn’t take that effort of his as evidence that he still loves her.

What if she takes him back?

Truly, that’s what’s been ticking in the back of my mind since I heard his car’s engine. The fear that he’d show up and take what he thinks is his. And that she’d let him.

I let the fear take hold of me, and I made a bad call. I can’t blame her if she wants nothing to do with me after this. My throat goes thick at the thought of it, and my stomach churns. Did I just ruin everything for all of us? Or just me?

She wipes tears with the heel of her hand. “I hate that he gets under my skin.” A brittle laugh. “And I hate that I still care what every neighbor thinks.”

I step closer. “Let ’em think. You did nothing wrong. I’m the fuckup here.”

Her gaze flicks to my reddened hand. “Is your hand okay?”

“The hand is fine.” I swallow. “I shouldn’t have hit him. I just…I couldn’t let him talk about you like that. I’ll do better, if you let me.”

She studies me, reading every line of regret carved into my face. Seconds tick—each one heavier than the last. Then she exhales, shoulders easing. “Thank you for standing up for me,” she whispers. “But next time, try words first?”

Hope splinters into my heart. “Next time? So…there’ll be a next time?”

“You think I’m done with you because you slapped my ex?” She gives a watery smile. “I’m not a quitter.”

Relief floods so hard my knees nearly buckle. I step forward and gently take her hands. “Deal. Words first. Fists reserved strictly for end-of-the-world, apocalypse situations.”

She sniffles. “More jokes? Be still, my beating heart.”

I grin and make a silent vow to myself. No more slipups . I’ll be the man she can trust—no surprises, no fights, nothing to tarnish her family’s reputation.

Down the hall, Mrs. Markoff clears her throat. “Anya, Hunter? Need taste testers for the glaze.” Her tone is warm—an invitation. Another olive branch.

Anya squeezes my fingers. We walk back toward the kitchen together, my heart hammering. As Anya tastes the lemon glaze, her mother gives me a smile and a slight nod as she mouths, “Thank you.”

Having never experienced my own mother’s approval, Mrs. Markoff’s does something to me. It hits hard, square in my chest, and it feels like something I’ve needed for a long, long time.

I swallow, unsure what to say. But then Anya passes me a spoon to taste the glaze. Sour with just the right amount of sweet. “It’s perfect.”