And Ashley is my world.

I strip off my shirt and shake my head, letting my hair tickle my shoulders and neck.

Then I pounce.

Boom! A punch to Brendan’s perfect nose.

Then an uppercut under his chin.

A knife hand to his neck and one more to his shoulder.

My jeans aren’t the easiest garments to move in, but I pull one leg upward and land a roundhouse kick to Brendan’s flank and then to his head. A perfect double kick. I’ll feel it tomorrow, but tonight I don’t care.

A hook kick is next, to his other flank, and then I jump and execute a perfect axe kick to the top of his head.

The real Brendan would be writhing on the ground about now.

But still I punch.

Still I kick.

Still I grunt, sweat pouring off me.

And still Brendan taunts me, standing tall, blow after blow.

Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!

I plow forward into Brendan, tackling him to the ground.

Fist to face, fist to face, fist to face—

I jerk. Did I hear something? Someone calling me?

Composure. I need composure.

I grasp and grasp and grasp but can’t find it. Still I pummel fake Brendan’s face. The face that magically regains its shape no matter how much pain I inflict.

You can’t have her! You can’t have her! You can’t have her!

The click of the basement door opening. “Dale? You down there?”

You can’t have her! You can’t have her! You can’t have her!

Footsteps from somewhere in the back of my mind.

Someone’s coming.

Still I punch, punch, punch.

“Dale!”

Strong arms try to grapple me away, but no… I won’t give up. Not until Brendan Murphy is gone. Reduced to roadkill mush.

“Dale, what’s the matter with you?”

I turn, but instead of my father’s dark eyes, I see Brendan’s blue ones.

I’ve got her. I’m going to fuck her.

In a blind rage, I pull my fist back and land a perfect punch to his smarmy expression.

“Damn! That smarts! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

As if on its own, my elbow pulls back, my fingers curl, and I’m ready to execute another blow—

My back hits the floor, and someone hovers over me, his blue eyes angry.

Except the eyes aren’t blue.

They’re dark brown.

My father’s eyes.

My father.

His cheek is red, and blood oozes from a small wound near his eye.

I punched my father.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demands again.

I close my eyes.

I can’t answer him.

If I answer him, he’ll know.

He’ll know the monster has been unleashed.

He’ll know I’m not who I seem to be.

And he’ll no longer want to be my father.

Chapter Thirteen

Ashley

Brendan’s apartment over the bar is small and cozy—just a living area, kitchen, and bedroom. He’s broiling burgers when I arrive, and I can’t help a laugh. Burgers will work great with the Latour, but most connoisseurs enjoy such a premier wine with classier fare.

“I know, I know,” he says with a laugh. “But I know how to make burgers. And they’re perfect, if I do say so myself. Thick and juicy and medium rare. Add a slice of cheddar jack and some tomato, and you’ve got something as good as any gourmet meal I can think of.”

“I can’t disagree,” I say. “I may be studying to be a sommelier, but I live pretty frugally back home in LA. Burgers are sometimes a luxury.”

“Oh?”

Crap. I’ve just opened the door into my life in Cali, including my childhood. Something I didn’t mean to do.

I choose to laugh it off. “Oh, you know. I’ve been a starving student for nearly eight years now.”

“I get it. When I first moved out of my parents’ house, I ate my share of ramen.”

“Haven’t you always had a job here?” I ask.

“Of course, but this is a small town. Tending bar isn’t exactly lucrative, and I didn’t do it full-time while my father was in charge. He and my mom couldn’t afford college, so I was on my own, and with student loan payments and all… You know the drill.”

Indeed I do. Except for the loan payments. Because my mother and I had basically nothing, I got most of my college paid for by grants, and I received full scholarships for all my grad school. I don’t want to invite any more inquiries about my past, though, so I simply nod.

Brendan puts the hamburgers on a platter and sets them on his small table, where the Latour already sits.

I gesture to it. “May I?”

“Of course.”

I pick up the bottle. The label is understated, with the red logo showing a lion atop a castle and the lettering in a slightly ornate serif font. “Where did you get this?” I ask.

“I appropriated it from a case my dad got about ten years ago.”

“You appropriated it?”

“Yeah.” He smiles. “But then Dad said I could have it.”

The mention of Brendan’s dad triggers a memory. “Jade told me that your dad had an uncle who died here in Snow Creek.”

“Yeah. At a wedding, of all things.”

I lift my brows. “A wedding?”

He nods. “A wedding at Steel Acres, actually.”

My heart plummets to my stomach. When Jade spoke of her beginnings with Talon, she kept mum about certain things.

What kind of secrets is she keeping?

“At the ranch?”

“Yeah. The wedding of Talon’s dad, Brad Steel.”

“Brad Steel. The name is familiar. Oh, yeah. One of Dale’s cousins is named Brad.”

He nods again. “Joe’s kid. Named after his grandpa, I guess.”

“So what happened at the grandfather’s wedding?”

“Man, that was long before my time, and no one talks about it anymore, but basically my great-uncle was Brad Steel’s best man. The way I hear it, he passed out while giving his toast, and he never woke back up.”

Icicles grab at the back of my neck. “What happened? I mean, how did it happen?”

“No one knows. For a while, there were rumors of a drug overdose or poisoning. Like I said, this happened over sixty years ago.”