Oh no.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t happening. That didn’t happen to Jonas.

No.

I stared at him staring at his father, looking frightened out of his brain, knowing his father, knowing what imparting this knowledge would mean, knowing he wouldn’t lie and I knew it did. It happened. I was right, Neeta wasn’t gentle with her son.

I stood, uncertain, not knowing which one to go to. Tate was visibly struggling with fury, Jonas the same with fear.

“I wanna live here,” Jonas whispered, his voice sounding clogged, his eyes filling with tears. “Laurie tell you?”

Tate didn’t answer and I wasn’t certain he heard his son speak. He was stuck in time hearing his son telling him his Mom drove drunk with him in the car and jerked him around.

Jonas pushed up so he was squatting over the stool, his hands still in the island, his feet on the edge of the stool, panic edging into his fear.

“I wanna live here,” he repeated.

Tate scowled at his son, immobile but still somehow hyper-alert and he did this for so long, waiting for him to answer, listening for the words to come out and doing it so intensely, I felt like I was going to faint.

“You already f**kin’ do,” Tate finally returned, his voice an infuriated growl, then he tagged his phone from the counter, turned on his boot and prowled down the hall to the garage.

I looked at Jonas to see his face had gone white as a sheet and I watched a tear slide down his cheek.

Seeing that lone tear, three words sprung to mind.

That.

Fucking.

Bitch!

“Dad!” Jonas shouted, coming off the stool and my mind jerked into the moment.

“Stay here,” I ordered.

“But –”

“Here!” I said it unintentionally sharply, waited only for him to nod, I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile and then I ran after Tate.

I caught him at the side of the garage, he was already astride his bike and I knew from his movements the bike was about to roar, he was going to take off and Neeta was going to get what she deserved.

Even if she deserved it, I couldn’t let it happen.

“Tate!” I shouted.

He ignored me.

“Tate!” I yelled, making it to him, my hands going to his body, one to his back, one to his chest.

“Back up,” he growled.

“Come inside,” I urged.

His eyes came to me and it took everything I had not to turn and flee at the rage I saw in them.

“Back the f**k up, Ace.”

“Come inside, baby.”

“Back up!” he roared.

In the face of his wrath, I didn’t know how I found the courage but I called it up and moved closer.

“Don’t, Captain,” I begged. “Don’t make him sorry he told you.”

“Back up,” he repeated.

“Lock it down, Tate.”

“Lauren, not gonna say it again.”

“Please, please.” I got as close as I could, my hands moving to his bearded cheeks and my face getting into his so I was all he could see. “I know you’re angry. You have a right. If you need to work that out, then be a jerk. Say something mean to me. But don’t make Jonas sorry he told you.”

“Lauren –”

“You made this place safe for me. I spent ten years in a place that was unsafe. Jonas has too. Make this place safe for him too, baby. Please.”

His eyes closed and he jerked his head away, tearing it from my hands.

I bent my neck so my forehead was resting against the side of his head and I whispered in his ear, “Please, Tate. You can do it, I know you can. You did it for me. Please.”

He didn’t speak and I wrapped my hands around his neck, keeping my forehead pressed to him.

Finally, he growled, “She coulda killed him.”

“She didn’t,” I whispered.

“She hurt him.”

My nose stung with the tears but I had too much going on. I needed to get him off the bike, I needed to get back to Jonas and I needed to get him back to Jonas. I didn’t have it in me to hold them back so I let the tears go.

Feeling them slide down my face, my voice was a croak when I said, “Yes.”

“Bub,” he whispered, his voice rough.

My hands tightened. “Yes.”

“My boy.”

“Tate, please come inside.”

He fell silent then his neck moved, not forcefully, and I lifted up as his torso twisted to me. I put my hands on his shoulders and stared down at him.

“How do I make that right?” he asked, his beautiful eyes bleak and I vowed I’d hate Neeta until the day she died for making my man look that way.

I swallowed a sob-induced hiccough and shook my head. “I don’t know. I just know you will.”

It was his turn to shake his head. “You believe that?”

“I believe you can do anything.”

The minute I said it his face changed and, I swear to God, he looked just like his son did two nights before. He stared up at me with astonished marvel.

“Christ, you actually think that,” he whispered, his eyes studying my face.

“No,” I replied and my fingers gave him a squeeze. “I know it.”

“Dad.” We heard and we both turned, Tate twisting further to look at Jonas who was standing just outside the side garage door. Jonas rubbed a hand jerkily along his cheek to wipe away tears and I saw that hand was shaking. “Dad,” he repeated like he didn’t know what to say.

“You get a shower at your Grandpop’s last night?” Tate asked, his voice low and even.

Jonas blinked, openly surprised at Tate’s even tone delivering a normal, everyday question. I turned to look at Tate and saw him start to swing off the bike.

And I knew from watching him he’d done it. He’d locked down the fury. He’d found a way to control it even with what caused it and even being justified having it.

I was right. He could do anything.

I moved out of his way and Jonas answered as Tate stopped moving at my side.

“Yeah.”

I looked back at Jonas and heard Tate order gently, “Then go change your clothes, Bub, while Laurie makes breakfast.”

Jonas swallowed again but otherwise didn’t move.

Then he asked, “You mad?”

“Yeah,” Tate answered instantly.

“At Mom?” Jonas went on.

“Yeah,” Tate repeated.

“She’s –” Jonas started, I knew he was going to defend her, I opened my mouth to speak in order to intervene should that set Tate off again but Tate got there before me.