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Henry doesn’t back down. Instead, he glares at Drew like he has a death wish.
“She’s having my baby. She’ll never be yours.”
“She isn’t anybody’s property, you selfish prick.”
Henry only snorts as Drew’s fists tighten on his collar, cutting off his air supply and making his face turn red.
“So you think she’s with you now?” he splutters. “A man with a criminal past? Wake up, Son. She’s a fucking lawyer. You’re not good enough for her.”
Drew crowds him more, the muscles in his back tensing beneath his jacket as he glowers at him, their eyes like acid burning into one another. Then he pushes Henry to one side and steps back beside me.
“That’s about the only fucking thing we agree on,” Drew spits. “I’m not good enough. But I’m blessed that she wants to be with me.Withme. Not owned by me. One’s forced, one’s a choice. And you’re old enough to know the difference.”
“She’s having my baby.” Henry jabs his finger into his crumpled shirt over his chest. “Mine. Not yours.”
I lay a hand on Drew’s bicep. It’s solid and unyielding like he’s about to run into battle.
“I think we should leave,” I urge.
I need to be away from Henry to process this. We both do. No good will come from them looking like they’re about to kill one another any second.
Drew ignores me, squaring up to Henry as his eyes flick down and back up his body. When they come back up, they’re full of a silent challenge that makes nausea claw at my windpipe.
“Not like this,” I beg.
But he isn’t listening. He’s locked on target and nothing else around him exists.
“That’s where you’re wrong,Dad,” Drew spits. “She isn’t just having your baby. She’s having mine too.”
Henry snarls, “Don’t be stupi—”
“It’s twins. She’s having twins.”
Chapter 18
Drew
“What?” Dad’s eyes widen.
“You heard me,” I grit, enjoying watching the smarmy smugness being scraped from his face by my revelation. “Sophie’s having twins, aren’t you, Darling?” I glance at her, but she’s silent, shaking her head at me.
“You had sex with my son? With my leftovers inside you? Did you even shower in between?”
For the second time tonight, I throw my father against the wall. His face contorts as I hold him with my forearm pinned across his windpipe. The idea of crushing it altogether is looking more appealing by the millisecond.
“Apologize.”
He grimaces as I force my arm higher and raise a brow.
“That’s the mother of my children you’re talking to. Now fucking apologize.”
“What’s going on? Drew?”
“Dad!”
Mum’s and Maddy’s voices cut through the air, breaking up our cozy Father/Son bonding, as a large hand lands on my shoulder.
“Let him go, Buddy. Let’s talk about this someplace else.”
