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SIX

Damon

It takes a long time for her to fall asleep.

But the time for words and tears has passed, and I just hold her against me until her body relaxes against mine, until she slumps in my lap.

And then I lift her carefully in my arms, carry her up to her bedroom, and tuck her under the covers.

When she shifts uneasily, I brush my fingers lightly through her hair.

And when she settles again, I tuck the blankets tighter around her.

And then I leave, locking the door behind me, and driving away from her house, speeding through dark roads, mind filled with fury and need and…

Fury.

It stays inside me until I got home, until I park in my garage, until I push through the door.

Then it threatens to burst.

Thankfully, it only takes a few more steps to make it to my home gym.

And a few more after that to get to the punching bag.

Which brings me to now, my knuckles bruised and bleeding, the bag dented and swinging so hard it threatens to come down from the ceiling altogether.

And the rage inside me hasn’t abated in the least.

I want to drive straight to Hiller’s place, yank the asshole out of bed, and commit murder.

But I’ve made that mistake before—and although I stopped short of actually committing murder, it still imploded my life…and more importantly my sister’s.

Who—

I catch a flash of dark brown in the mirror then jerk, spinning to see Kylie leaning back against the open doorway, her hair sleep-mussed, but her eyes far too alert for the middle of the night.

“I could hear you all the way upstairs,” she says quietly.

Fuck.

I spin back toward the bag, wanting to start punching all over again, this time with the addition of my guilt and frustration for not being able to protect my sister from all manner of things big and small, even tonight from interrupted sleep.

I don’t want to stop punching.

The rage inside me is still there, swirling and red-hot.

But I bypass the bag and go straight for the stack of towels, grabbing a couple and using one to mop my forehead and the other to wipe the blood from my knuckles.

When I turn back, she’s gone, but I know it’s not because she’s returned to bed.

And my proof of that is when she returns, two bottles of beer in hand.

She passes one over to me and says, “Leave the suit by your hamper and I’ll take it to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”

I glance down at myself, see my jacket and shirt are wrinkled, sweaty, and spotted with blood.

Probably too far gone for even the dry cleaner to salvage, but I’m not one to deny my sister anything.

“Okay, Ky.” A beat. “Thanks.”

She tilts her head down the hall and I start following her, stopping to flick off the lights in the kitchen as we go.

It’s not until we’re climbing the stairs to our bedrooms that she bumps her shoulder against mine. “Wanna tell me what brought you trying to break another punching bag on?”

I don’t.

I really fucking don’t.

But all I say is, “I found out more shit about Hiller.”

She sucks in a breath, and I hate the shadow that crosses her face.

We reach the top of the stairs, and when she’s safe enough away to not fall right back down them, I bump my shoulder lightly back against hers. “It’s not my story to share, kid,” I explain softly. “But it’s not good.”

She looks up at me, blue eyes studying mine closely. “It’s not not good ,” she says quietly. “It’s bad.”

I exhale quietly.

Then agree, “It’s bad.”

Her eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t let them escape. She hasn’t cried—at least not in front of me—not since I first found out what the man did to her. And tonight is no different. She blinks a couple of times, takes a few deep breaths, and then she nods, expression growing determined.

“So, how are you going to make it better for her?”

Like that’s a given.

Like it’s a given that I have the power to make everything better.

It’s all empty.

Joey’s words slide through my mind, sad and soft and punctuated with tears. And behind all of that, a steel framework I’ve always been in awe of. To the world she’s a woman who’s breaking barriers, who is leading a male-dominated organization without fear. But I always knew she was more—yes, she has a spine of steel, yes, she has no problem calling me or any of the guys on our shit. Yes, she’s a good leader and smart and hardworking and funny as fuck?—

But she’s so much more than that.

And the biggest part of the more?

It’s the temptation to take something I shouldn’t.

That I can’t.

More so now that I know about Hiller.

Yet, looking into my sister’s knowing gaze, critically aware of the gnawing ache inside of me that’s been getting harder and harder to ignore as the years and months drift by, Joey’s confession still ringing through my mind, and I know that my sister isn’t wrong.

Joey is empty.

Alone.

She’s been hurt.

There’s absolutely no way, knowing all of that, seeing the impact it’s having on her, knowing the shit my sister lived through after what was done to her , and knowing the woman Joey is beyond all she’s survived and not do something about it.

It’s a done deal.

Something I know my sister knows too because her expression gentles, the glossy sheen of those tears comes back, and she reaches up to pat my cheek.

“You’re a good man, big bro.”

“I’m—”

Before I can finish the protest—that I’m pretty much as far from a good man as they come—she drops her arm and disappears into her bedroom, beer in hand.

I have no choice but to go into my own room—because it’s either that or stand there, staring at her closed door, far too many troubling thoughts ricocheting through my head. But even as I finish off my beer, dump my filthy suit on the floor next to my hamper, and drop into bed, those thoughts don’t go away.

And I don’t know what’s worse.

Knowing what happened to Joey.

Or knowing that I’m going to be the one to fix it.