“Macon . . . ?” But I then see what he sees, and my mouth dries.

The man striding toward us is an older, grayer version of Macon. Same beautifully carved bone structure, same slanting brows and coal-dark eyes. Only his mouth is different, thin and flat with a bitterness that appears to be a permanent affliction. There is a bloated look about his neck and face from hard drinking, a reddened cast to his puffy skin.

George Saint wastes no time with pleasantries as he stops in front of his son. “Knew I’d find you here, prancing like a peacock in front of the press. Always were desperate for attention.”

Macon has regained some of his color, and his voice comes out hard and sharp. “I’d say something about the pot calling the kettle black, but you don’t have enough self-awareness to get it.”

George Saint narrows his eyes, and while the gesture is reminiscent of Macon’s, it holds such cold ugliness that in that instant, they look nothing alike. “I thought I beat the disrespect out of you. Clearly I should have hit harder.”

My blood runs ice cold at his words, and I expel a breath that hurts when it leaves my lungs.

Though he doesn’t look my way, Macon hears me and shifts his weight, his wide shoulders half blocking my view as if he’s trying to put a wall of defense between me and his father. “The only thing your hits taught me was to hate.” Macon’s words are nails punching deep. “But understand this well. I hit back now. And I hit much harder.”

George’s florid skin pales before the red returns with a vengeance. “You owe me my due, boy.”

“I left you in one piece,” Macon snaps back, though his voice is low and strong. “Given what I wanted to do, you ought to thank me.”

“I will end you,” George hisses, spittle wetting his lip. “Tell everyone who you really are. Worthless, spineless little shit—”

“No!” The word erupts from my mouth like a shot. Somehow I’ve spoken without planning to, rounding past Macon and stepping into George Saint’s space without realizing it. But I’m not backing down. Rage colors my world a blinding white, hazing the edges of everything. It surges through my blood like quicklime. “You will do no such thing. You will leave this place and crawl back under the rock from which you came.”

I’m in a fine fix now, my body shaking with rage. “This man is the best of you, the only good you will ever know. And you will have to go through me to ever touch him again.”

The din of the crowd returns full force when I, at last, run out of steam. But I am no less enraged—merely resting. And then Macon moves, just as his father seems to step forward. It all happens at once, a sort of strange, ugly dance in which Macon wraps an arm around my waist, tucking me to his side as he also straightens, his stance so menacing that George Saint falters.

“Enough.” One word from Macon’s mouth. A threat and a promise. Whatever George does will be met with the impenetrable wall of Macon’s resolve.

His father’s cold eyes land on me. “I recognize you now. The dumpy Baker girl with the big mouth. Used to fight like a cat with my boy. Knew he wanted to hate fuck you then. Told him not to bother since he had the beautiful slutty sister begging for it.” He sneers at his son. “Should have known you wouldn’t listen. Slumming now, boy? Must be a new chunky kink.”

Macon’s grip on me tightens even as my breath catches painfully in my throat. He clearly feels my reaction, and his hand spreads wide and warm over my side.

“Shut your ugly mouth while you still can,” he says to his father. Against my cheek, his heart beats swift and light into his ribs. Tremors go through his middle, but he hides it well. “If you think for one second you’re safe because we’re in public, you’re wrong.”

So far, no one seems to have noticed our argument. People are laughing and chatting in groups. But that could easily end with one good hit.

“I think,” George Saint says, leaning in, “that you’d snivel and plead just like you did as a snot-nosed boy.”

Macon doesn’t move, doesn’t show an inch of emotion, but I feel the recoil in his body, the hurt that he undoubtedly hates acknowledging. Because family, whether we like them or not, has the power to tear our hearts out. They know just where to twist the knife in.

My hand goes to his chest and presses lightly against his racing heart. “Come away now,” I say, looking up, the whole of my attention given just to him. “There is no reason for you to be here anymore.”