“Now I have to report to you?”

She barely heard the rest of the words that hammered at her. Ungrateful, respect, duty. But she knew that look, that avenging angel look. The dark blond hair, perfectly groomed, the smooth, handsome face suffused with angry color. The rage in those bright blue eyes so cold, so cold.

The frisson of heat became electric snaps.

“It was on the calendar!” Her voice rose in pitch. “I told you only this morning.”

“Do you think I have time to check your ridiculous calendar? You will be home when I walk in the door. Do you understand me?” He slammed her against the counter again, shooting a jolt of pain up her spine. “I’m responsible for everything you have. This home, the clothes on your back, the food you eat. I pay for someone to cook, to clean so you can be available to me when I say! So you damn well will be home when I walk in the door. You’ll damn well spread your legs when I want to fuck you.”

To prove it, he rammed his erection against her.

She slapped him. Even knowing what was coming—maybe because of what was coming—she slapped him.

And that rage went from cold to hot. His lips peeled back.

He plowed his fist into her midsection.

He never hit her in the face.

* * *

At fourteen, Zane Bigelow’s heart and soul centered on baseball. He liked girls—he liked looking at naked girls once his pal Micah showed him how to bypass the parental controls on his computer. But baseball still ranked number one.

Numero uno.

Tall for his age, gangly with it, he longed to get through school, be discovered by a scout for the Baltimore Orioles—he’d settle for any American League team, but that was his number one pick.

Totally numero uno.

He’d play shortstop—the amazing Cal Ripken would have retired by then. Besides, Iron Man Ripken was back at third.

This comprised Zane’s ambitions. And actually seeing a naked girl in the—you know—flesh.

Nobody in the world could have been happier than Zane Bigelow as Mrs. Carter—Micah’s mom—drove the car pool gang home in her Lexus SUV. Even if she had Cher singing about life after love playing.

He didn’t have a passion for cars—yet—just a young male’s innate knowledge. And he preferred rap (not that he could play it in the house).

But even with Cher singing, his sister and the other two girls squealing about Christmas, Micah deep into Donkey Kong on his Game Boy (Micah’s desperate Christmas wish was the new Game Boy Color), Zane hit the highest note on the happy scale.

No school for ten whole days! Even the prospect of being pushed into skiing—not his favorite sport, especially when his father kept pointing out his little sister skied rings around him—couldn’t dampen his mood.

No math, ten days. He hated math like he hated spinach salad, which was a lot.

Mrs. Carter pulled over to let Cecile Marlboro out. There was the usual shuffling, hauling of backpacks, the high-pitched squeal of girls.

They all had to hug, because Christmas vacation.

Sometimes they had to hug because it was, like, Tuesday or whatever. He’d never get it.

Everybody called out Merry Christmas—they’d called out Happy Holidays when dropping Pete Greene off, because he was Jewish.

Almost home, Zane thought, watching the houses go by. He figured to fix himself a snack, then—no homework, no freaking math—close up in his room and settle in with an hour on Triple Play on his PlayStation.

He knew Lois—off till like après ski—planned to make lasagna before she left for her own family holiday stuff. And Lois’s lasagna was awesome.

Mom would actually have to turn on the oven to heat it up, but she could handle that much.

Better yet, Grams and Pop got in from Savannah tomorrow. He wished they could stay at his house instead of with his aunt Emily, but he planned to ride his bike over to the old lake house the next afternoon and hang awhile. He could talk Emily into baking cookies—wouldn’t even have to talk hard for that.

And they were coming for Christmas dinner. Mom wouldn’t even have to turn on the oven for that one. Catered.

After dinner Britt would play piano—he sucked at piano, which equaled another regular dig from his dad—and they’d do a sing-along.

Corny, totally corny, but he sort of liked it. Plus, he sang pretty good, so he didn’t get ragged on.

As the car pulled over at his house, Zane exchanged fist bumps with Micah.

“Dude, Merry.”

“Dude,” Micah said. “Back atcha.”

While Britt and Chloe hugged as if they wouldn’t see each other for a year, Zane slid out. “Merry Christmas, Chloe. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Carter, and thanks for the ride.”

“Merry Christmas, Zane, and you’re always welcome.” She shot him a smile, made eye contact. She was really pretty for a mom.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carter, and Merry Christmas.” Britt practically sang it. “I’ll call you, Chloe!”

Zane slung his backpack over one shoulder as Britt climbed out. “What are you calling her for? What could you have left to talk about? Y’all never shut up all the way home.”

“We have plenty to talk about.”

Britt, more than a full head shorter, shared his coloring. The dark hair—Britt’s nearly to her waist and pinned back with reindeer barrettes—the same sharp green eyes. Her face was still sort of round and babyish while his had gone angular. Because, Em said, he was growing up.

Not that he was ready to shave or anything, though he did check carefully every day.

Because she was his sister, he felt honor bound to give her grief. “But y’all don’t actually say anything. It’s like: Ooooh, Justin Timberlake.” He followed up with loud kissy noises, making her blush.

He knew Timberlake was her not-so-secret crush.

“Just shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“You shut up.”

They back-and-forthed that until they reached the veranda—switched to snarling looks, as both knew if they went inside arguing and their mother heard, an endless lecture would follow.

Zane dug out his key, as his father decreed the house stayed locked whether or not anyone was home. The second the door cracked open, he heard it.

The snarl dropped from Britt’s face. Her eyes went huge, filled with fear and tears. She slapped her hands over her ears.

“Go upstairs,” Zane told her. “Go straight up to your room. Stay there.”

“He’s hurting her again. He’s hurting her.”

Instead of running to her room, Britt ran inside, ran back toward the great room, stood, hands still over her ears. “Stop!” She screamed it. “Stop, stop, stop, stop.”

Zane saw blood smeared on the floor where his mother tried to crawl away. Her sweater was torn, one of her shoes missing.

“Go to your rooms!” Graham shouted it as he hauled Eliza up by her hair. “This is none of your business.”

Britt just kept screaming, screaming, even when Zane tried to pull her back.

He saw his father’s hate-filled eyes track over, latch on to his sister. And a new fear flashed hot inside him, burned something away.

He didn’t think, didn’t know what he intended to do. He shoved his sister back, stood between her and his father, a skinny kid who’d yet to grow into his feet. And with that flash of heat, he charged.

“Get away from her, you son of a bitch!”

He rammed straight into Graham. Surprise more than the power of the hit knocked Graham back a step. “Get the hell away.”

Zane never saw it coming. He was fourteen, and the only fights he’d ever participated in consisted of a little pushy-shovey and insults. He’d felt his father’s fist—a blow to the gut, sometimes the kidneys.

Where it didn’t show.

This time the fists struck his face, and something behind his eyes exploded, blurred his vision. He felt two more before he dropped, the wild pain of them rising over the fear, the anger. His world went gray, and through the gray, lights sizzled and flashed.

With the taste of blood in his mouth, his sister’s screams banging in his head, he passed out.

The next he knew, he realized his father had slung him over his shoulder, carrying him up the stairs. His ears rang, but he could hear Britt crying, hear his mother telling her to stop.

His father didn’t lay him down on the bed, but shrugged him off his shoulder so Zane bounced on the mattress. Every inch of his body cried out in fresh pain.

“Disrespect me again, I’ll do more than break your nose, blacken your eye. You’re nothing, do you understand me? You’re nothing until I say you are. Everything you have, including the breath in your body, is because of me.”

He leaned close as he spoke, spoke in that smooth, calm tone. Zane saw two of him, couldn’t even manage to nod. The shaking started, the teeth-chattering cold of shock.

“You will not leave this room until I permit it. You will speak to no one. You will tell no one the private business of this family or the punishment you forced me to levy today will seem like a picnic. No one would believe you. You’re nothing. I’m everything. I could kill you in your sleep, and no one would notice. Remember that the next time you think about trying to be a big man.”