Page 35

Chapter Thirty-Five

W hit stared unflinchingly at his brother-in-law, who stood with his arms crossed and a look of naked hostility on his face.

“It isn’t enough that you seduced my sister onto your path of death and darkness. You had to come around here and invade my only place of peace? What do you want from me?” Llewellyn demanded.

“Clover isn’t happy?—”

“And she never will be with the likes of you,” Llewellyn interrupted.

Whit sighed through his nose. He was a patient man, but Llewellyn was trying that patience. His skin prickled with irritation.

“She’s unhappy with how she left things with you and your parents.”

Llewellyn sneered. “Simple, then. Send her home.”

Whit sighed in exasperation. “Why are you being like this? Look, you don’t have to like me. I couldn’t really care less. But I’m not going to turn my wife out of the house because you don’t approve of her choice of me as a spouse. Get real, man, and grow up.”

The strike came so fast that Whit couldn’t avoid it. He saw Llewellyn’s fist coming toward him. And after the shock of finding himself on the floor waned, pain radiated from his cheek into his eye and jaw.

Whit blinked his blurry vision, trying to focus on Llewellyn, who stood over him—his stance and loose limbs ready for a fight.

“Why am I being like this? Because I don’t like you. I don’t like people like you. And it makes my skin crawl to think that you would ever even look at my sister let alone touch her. She deserves someone who will light up her life. She deserves to laugh and sing as if every day is summer. Call me fantastical and childish all you want—like I give a shit what someone like you thinks of me. The sun will shine at night before I ever approve of you. So as I see it, you didn’t just steal my sister. You killed her.”

Whit’s stomach twisted at his words, but he wasn’t thinking about that. As anger pumped through his veins, all his rational thoughts turned to whispers in his mind. Picking himself up, he sucked his teeth.

Then he threw himself at Llewellyn, tackling him to the ground.

The fight that ensued was not pretty. It was not those glorious action shots in the movies with dramatic music that show off the human form at its fiercest. No, it was ugly and clumsy. Hair was pulled, clothes were torn, blood was drawn. And in the end, the two men were left lying on their backs staring up at the ceiling—the only sounds their heavy breathing and the gentle tinkle of water from the fountain.

“I hate you,” Llewellyn huffed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t like you much either,” Whit responded.

Llewellyn turned his head to look over at Whit. “You better not tell my sister we got in a fight.”

Whit snorted and the blood that had begun to coagulate in his nose started dripping again. “I hadn’t planned on it.”

Llewellyn pointed his gaze back toward the ceiling. “She hates violence.” He smiled, then hissed as the motion pulled at his split lip. “Actually, she’s probably going to be pissed at you for getting into a fight. She always lectured me while she patched me up.”

“I guess I’m in for it, then.”

Sitting up, Llewellyn looked down at him. “You told Merry she was waiting for you. Clean yourself up in the bathroom behind the screen before you leave.”

Whit rolled to the side to push himself up with his arms.

“Ew, dude, you’re getting blood on my floor,” Llewellyn complained.

Whit glanced around the space. There were already specks of blood on the floor. Now he was just being picky.

Llewellyn groaned. “This is going to take forever to clean up.”

“Do you want help?” Whit asked, now on his feet.

Llewellyn leveled a glare at him. “Are you going to keep my sister waiting? Clean yourself up, and get the hell out of my studio.”

Whit didn’t have the energy to argue, nor did he really want to. Stumbling into the bathroom, he stared at himself in the mirror. His nose was bleeding but didn’t seem broken. It was still straight anyway. His eye was swelling, and he knew it would be black soon enough. As bad as his face looked, his body was worse. He already felt exactly where bruises were forming on his abdomen and back. And his hands were the worst of all—cut and scraped from the punches he’d gotten in.

Leaning over the sink, he rinsed his face as best he could with cold water. Then he stuck some rolled up toilet paper into his nostrils and washed his hands. The soap stung his cuts, but the pain seemed far away at this point.

After washing up, he still looked like shit. He had no idea what he was going to tell Clover. She would surely ask, and he had no way of hiding it from her. Shaking his head at himself, he couldn’t believe he’d let his emotions get the better of him.

Llewellyn was mopping the floor with a strong-smelling disinfectant when Whit came out of the bathroom.

Whit crossed the room and stuffed his feet into his shoes. As he pulled on his coat, he said, “I’ll be back next week.”

“Don’t you dare,” Llewellyn barked.

Whit left without another word and turned on his cellphone as he climbed into his truck. There was a text from Clover telling him she was waiting at a café near the shelter. He buckled his seatbelt and started to drive, his mind grasping for any excuse he could give her.