Rosaleen takes my hand and tugs me into her room. It’s pink and princessy, with a unicorn border and a rainbow, blue-skyed mural painted on the ceiling. She climbs into her four-poster bed. “Will you lay down with me, Jake?”

I shake my head. “No.”

Her teeth chatter dramatically and she pulls the covers up to her chin. “But what if One-Eyed Willie comes to get me?”

I scratch the back of my neck, debating. “Well . . . we can leave your door open and the hall light on?”

Nope—not good enough.

“And . . . I can sit outside your door until you fall asleep.” I brought my laptop to get some work done, and the floor suits me as well as a desk. I’m not picky.

“Okay.” She smiles. Then she waves me closer with her hand. I lean down and she raises her head off the pillow, pressing the softest kiss to my cheek.

And the weird, warm tingles surge with a vengeance.

“Good night, Jake. Sweet dreams.”

I watch her for a moment as she nestles under the covers, the very image of all things pure and good and innocent. And everything in me wants her to be able to stay just like that.

I shake my head at my sentimentality. Because I don’t fucking do sappy. Harsh, cynical, brutally honest, yes—but never sappy.

I turn off the light. “Good night, Rosaleen.”

• • •

Sometime later—thirty minutes or three hours—I wake up on the floor, my computer open on my lap, chin to chest, my neck aching and my ass totally numb. It’s disorienting at first; I’m not sure where I am or why I’m on the goddamn floor. I look around, inhaling deeply, and then I remember. The Goonies, Chelsea going out with her loser friends, the kids.

I close the laptop and rub my eyes, wondering what woke me up. Rosaleen’s still out cold and all is silent from the other three closed doors in the hall, including the baby’s room. I get to my feet and—

Thump.

A sound comes from downstairs, then indecipherable low voices.

What the hell?

My muscles tighten, expecting trouble. Maybe someone’s breaking in? I wonder if Chelsea ever moved that key from under the mat.

“Mmm . . . yeah . . .”

That was a male moan. A burglar wouldn’t be fucking moaning.

I creep down the stairs, ears straining. And the voices get clearer with each step.

“Lucas!” That was Chelsea.

“You’re so fucking hot, babe.”

My stomach twists and my fists clench. It’s not a burglar.

“I need you so bad,” he says.

“Lucas—”

Her voice is low, a harsh whisper because she’s thinking of the kids. She’s always thinking of the kids. But her words are clear.

“Lucas, get off.”

And so are his.

“Don’t be a bitch, Chels. I know you want it.”

“No. Stop, Lucas—no!”

“Shh, relax. Just let me—”

And I fucking lose it.

I round the corner into the living room. They’re on the couch, still fully clothed. He’s on top, grinding on her, covering her almost completely except for her legs.

Her twisting, kicking legs.

In one move, I pull him off Chelsea by the back of his shirt. I hold him suspended with one hand and punch him in the face with other. My fist makes contact with a satisfying crunch and I feel his nose crack under my knuckles. My vision is tinged white with rage, and my pulse pounds a murderous beat in my eardrums as I pull back and nail him again in the mouth. He raises his hands for protection, and I drop him to the floor.

Just so I can kick him. My boot catches him right under the rib, driving the breath from his lungs.

And I want more. I’m hungry for it—pain, blood, and fucking suffering.

He gasps and wheezes, trying to replace the air. But I don’t hear it. I don’t even see him, really. The only image playing behind my eyes is Chelsea—sweet and gentle, unwilling and struggling beneath him. Telling him no. Begging him to stop.

He didn’t. Why the fuck should I?

I yank him up by his arm and throw him against the wall.

“She said no, asshole! Are you deaf?” Then I wrap my hands around his throat.

It’s soft. Weak. So easily breakable.

And I squeeze.

His eyes bulge and he claws at my hands. But it’s as effective as the brush of a butterfly’s wings.

“Jake, please don’t.”

Chelsea’s hand is on my shoulder, and her voice is soft. Pleading. “Don’t, Jake. Please stop.”

She feels like a harbor, steady and calm amid churning dark, deadly waters.

And so I stop. Not because he deserves it.

Only because she asked.

I release him and the dickhead slides to the floor, coughing and bleeding. I pant, glaring down at him, my heart beating brutally in my chest. I grab his jacket from the chair—mindful enough to take the keys from the pocket, because he reeks like a brewery—before throwing it at him.

“Get out,” I growl, sounding as savage as I feel.

He wipes his bleeding face with his jacket and glares up at me with hateful, unrepentant eyes. “I need my keys,” he rasps.

Dumb fuck.

“No. You can sleep in your car. When you’re sober in the morning, then you can take your sorry ass elsewhere.”

He actually opens his mouth to argue, but I don’t let him.

“Two choices. Sleep in the goddamn car, or end up unconscious in the hospital. I know which one I’d prefer.”