Page 63 of My Ex's Billionaire Brothers

I can’t let her go. I can’t. Hell, I can’t even breathe?—

Downstairs, a chair scrapes violently, and Theo’s tenor shouts something I can’t parse. My adrenaline spikes as I turn around, expecting a problem. I plant myself between Anya and the door, fists clenching so hard that my nails bite skin. The only relief comes from locking the door.

Polished shoes clack up the stairwell with furious momentum. Theo’s voice rises, a warning note. The handle rattles, the hinge groans. Weapon. I need a weapon. Between the porcelain dolls and the trophies, I grab the best option—the heaviest trophy from her shelves.

The voices are clearer through the door now, closer. Anya’s mom says, “Now, Calvin, let’s?—”

Theo snaps, “Get out of this house!”

My jaw clenches as I raise the trophy. This motherfucker?—

Anya gasps, “I can’t face him again.”

“You won’t.” But anger claws my insides—if Calvin breaches this room, the conversation ends in blood.

More footsteps and shouts rise from the stairs and hall, each step a countdown. I plant my feet, fists curling. The door handle rattles again. “Anya!” Calvin’s voice cracks with rage. “Get your ass out here!”

“Stay behind me,” I whisper.

Mrs. Markoff says, “Young man, you will keep a civil tone in this house!”

“Back off, lady!”

Theo barks, “Don’t you talk to her like that!”

“You betrayed me! All of you! I have every right to talk to you how I want!” He pounds the door. “Anya!”

Just what this family needs. More drama.

27

HUNTER

What is that squeal?No, not a squeal. Ringing. Hollow ringing. Something’s tickling my cheek, and I bat it away. It comes back. The hell is that?

Stars spin overhead—too many, too bright—while a porch floodlight casts a wide, jaundiced halo across the yard. Crickets rasp in surround sound. For three disorienting seconds, I think I’ve passed out on a football field again, sophomore year.

I pry my eyes open, only to get grass in them. The fuck? And why is the world sideways? I taste copper and dirt. When I pull away from the grass and push off the ground—I’m on the ground?—I sit up, only for my stomach to swirl. I almost vomit, and my brain thumps against my skull. It takes a minute for my eyes to focus.

CARVER6. That’s the first thing I see clearly. Calvin’s license plate.

The passenger door hangs open. Somewhere nearby, a rideshare Prius chirps a timid arrival noise.

It all comes flooding back, almost fast enough to make the world spin. Calvin’s roaring engine, and me marching off the porch to intercept him, vowing not to repeat driveway round one. No Calvin on the walk. Just his car. Where the hell is he? There’s a rustle in the hedge. I hear a loud crack, and then…nothing.

Anya. He’s here for Anya.

I lurch onto all fours. Blood trickles past my ear, warm and ticklish. A rideshare driver—a bearded guy in a neon-green Prius—leans out his window, phone in hand. “Uh, Miss Anya here?” he calls, scanning the driveway. “I’m Derek with GlideRight—five-star service?”

I wipe blood with my hand, look at the dark smear, then at him. “Drive, Derek. Save yourself.” My voice croaks like gravel dragged under a tire.

Derek’s eyes widen at the sight of blood. He slams the Prius into gear, U-turns so violently a palm frond slaps his windshield, and rockets back toward town.

One problem solved. Onto the next.

I stagger upright. Head throbs, but legs work. Porch lights burn gold across the yard. From inside the house, a woman’s sharp cry cuts the summer hush—Anya’s mom. Then Gage’s bellow, low and lethal.

Adrenaline kicks in. I sprint—not steady, but I fight to stay upright. Porch boards thud under bare feet, head pounding in syncopation. My brain hasn’t caught up, and everything plays in staccato.