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Uncle Bowie grabbed my arm, and I was shocked when Ridge slipped his arm around my waist and let me lean against him.

As we navigated the corridors to escape this literal madhouse, Ridge turned to glare at Uncle Bowie.

“What the fuck, Daddy?”

Uncle Bowie grunted. “That wasn’t exactly what I expected. If I hadn’t brought you—” He glanced at me. “—Derek would’ve taken you from the house and likely killed you. You should be thanking me. You should be on the ground kissing my fucking feet.” I hadn’t seen Uncle Bowie this worked up—ever—and it terrified me. He’d put me in a doghouse and was fine taking away my humanity. What new horrible things would he dream up if he was this upset?

“I can’t breathe,” I said.

Uncle Bowie and Ridge hugged me between them. They slowed, and I cowered in their arms, terrified of them, but I was even more worried about who else might be waiting to come out of the woodwork and exact their revenge on me for shit my parents had done.

“How long will things like this keep happening?” I murmured.

Uncle Bowie shrugged. “People have a long memory when it comes to cash. Keep in mind, I am the reason you’re still alive, pup.” He dragged my face around so he could stare into my eyes, and I felt like the sky was falling in on my head. “You owe me. You owe Ridge. You’re ours. I don’t want any bullshit from you. It’s clear, now, right? We’re your only refuge. We’re the only people in the world who want you alive.”

“You’re scaring him,” Ridge said softly as tears began to run down my cheeks.

“Good,” Uncle Bowie said. He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on my lips. “You’ve been a good pup, but maybe I deserve a little more eager service and so does Ridge. What do you think?”

I nodded because what else could I do? There was no other answer I could give him.

“You’re not allowing anyone to hurt him again,” Ridge said, pointing at Uncle Bowie. There was no submission in his tone. He sounded angry and almost to his breaking point.

Uncle Bowie glanced away and nodded, giving me a squeeze, almost like he was sorry. I couldn’t stop silently crying as we walked out to the car together. A pang raced through me because all I wanted to do was go home and curl up on my doggy bed, and how fucked up was that?

11

RIDGE

Anger vibrated in my chest, making it difficult to breathe evenly. Everything inside me wanted to lash out at Dad, to land a punch of my own against his nose. The only thing that held me back was Saint, who whimpered in pain as I helped him into the house. My left jaw throbbed in agony, a reminder that I’d done something I didn’t think I would ever do—defend Saint. But as much as I enjoyed his torment, it was mine to give. No one else had the right. No one.

“Take him to his room,” Dad ordered, striding past us with a fierceness I hadn’t seen in a while. I couldn’t decide if he was purposely being cruel or if he had something else on his mind. Even though he’d been angry at us for not fighting well, he’d stepped in and defended us, which was more than he’d ever done in my life. Dad wasn’t the kind of person to protect someone else because he firmly believed in men fighting their own battles, and though I was furious at him, my gut turned warm at the thought of him throwing punches for us, too.

“Come on.” I curled my arm around Saint’s shoulders and carefully led him up the stairs, but instead of taking him to his room like Dad had ordered, I guided him into my bedroom and straight into my connected bathroom instead. Saint didn’t argue, but I didn’t think he had the energy for it, either.

My bathroom wasn’t as nice as Dad’s, but it wasn’t anything to sneeze at, either. It had a massive jacuzzi tub in the far-right corner and a walk-in shower blocked by a thick granite-tile wall closest to the door. The long, floating stone counter on the left nearly took up the entire wall and it had dual basins made of the same material.

I led Saint straight to the counter and grabbed him around the waist, lifting him to sit near one of the basins. He gasped at the sudden move but lowered his head when I switched on a faucet. I left him there to go to the closet and grab an unused washcloth, and when I came back, he hadn’t moved an inch.

“Your dad said to take me to my room,” he murmured, barely audible even though it was deadly quiet. The bathroom had an echo, but it didn’t manage to catch his soft words.

I stared at him, taking in the dejected way his shoulders slumped forward and how he hunched in on himself, and it sparked a passionate fire in me that had hate curling in my chest. “He shouldn’t have allowed that.”

I stepped in closer and lowered the cloth to the cold water, successfully drenching it before I turned off the faucet and squeezed out the excess liquid. I raised the cloth to his face and dabbed it gently, taking particular care with his already bruised jaw and cheek.

“He can do what he wants.” Saint drew imaginary lines with his forefinger on the counter, gaze drawn to the stone as though he didn’t want to stare at me. He reminded me of a dog who’d been caught doing something wrong. “He owns me. You both do.”

We did, but I was starting to wonder if I enjoyed being his master. If there was one thing I liked about Saint’s presence in our lives, it was that Dad had never paid as much attention to me as he had since Saint arrived. I finally felt as if he could see me, and it was in ways I’d never thought I wanted him to view me.

I stayed silent as I ran the cloth over the top of his eyebrow, lost for words, which was unusual for me. Anger drove me and gave me purpose, and the fury I had for Saint was burning out, like it had reached the end of its course and was a fire being drowned by water.

“How do you feel about your parents now?” I asked, curious, as I slid the cloth over his chin carefully before sweeping it down his neck. I tugged on the black collar, my mind racing as I played with it, and made the pink gems and silver studs wink in the light. Was this a sign of our ownership? If I took the collar off and told him to leave, would he? Saint had no one left. His parents had disappeared, taking his younger sister, and Dad and I were his only family.

“I really want to say that I hate them.” He dropped his head farther forward with a sigh. “But I can’t. You can’t hate when you’re mentally exhausted.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. This emotional bullshit was hard to understand because I’d been encouraged to be an impassive robot—a blank slate with no attachments. My only goal had been to succeed at “winning life” and bring pride to our name. Saint was raised to be the same way, but he’d never seemed to worry much about proving he was better than everyone else, even when we’d fought.

Had he reached his breaking point?