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“No. Come on, man. I said I fucking get it.”

I wrap my fingers around his thumb.

Grant starts begging again, louder this time, promising me whatever the fuck he thinks I want to hear. That he’ll stay away from Goldie. That he won’t touch her again. That he’s sorry.

Maybe he even means it right now.

I bend his thumb back until the joint gives beneath my hand. His scream turns hoarse halfway through, but it’s done.

Then I let him go.

Grant stumbles sideways and almost eats shit before catching himself against the BMW with his good hand. He cradles the other one against his chest, every finger already swelling and sitting wrong while his entire body shakes from the pain.

I straighten and look at what I did.

A hard pulse of satisfaction hits me as I take in the damage. Grant’s hurting. He’s scared. Exactly like I wanted. For the first time since I saw those marks on Goldie, I don’t feel like tearing the world apart.

He looks up at me through crooked sunglasses, his face pale and damp with sweat.

I take one step toward him, and he flinches backward so fast his hip hits the car.

Now he understands.

“If you ever touch Goldie like that again, I won’t stop at your hand.”

His throat works as he swallows. “I’m going to the police.”

I chuckle, and he stumbles back a step. “With what proof?”

He holds up his mangled hand.

“Looks like you were fucking around and someone ran over your hand. You should be more careful next time.”

His shoulders slump because he knows I’m right. It’s his word against mine.

“And that bullshit about using the baby to hurt her?” I shake my head. “You want the paternity test, get the fucking test. Anything you’re legally entitled to after that, the lawyers can sort out.”

I point at him.

“But you threaten her with the baby again, corner her again, grab her again, or give me any reason to think you’re trying to scare her, you and I are going to have another conversation.”

Grant looks down at his destroyed hand.

I don’t need to explain what I mean.

I bend down and grab his keys from the asphalt, then set them on the trunk beside him.

“You might want to get somebody else to drive you to the hospital.”

He doesn’t say anything.

For once, Grant seems to have figured out when it’s time to shut the fuck up.

I turn away and head back toward my truck. My pulse is still running high, and sweat has my shirt sticking to my back, but the rage I’ve been carrying around since I saw those marks on Goldie finally feels manageable again.

I pull the driver’s door open.

Goldie’s waiting for me to come back to her.