Page 42

There’s no emotion in the words.

Which somehow makes them hit harder.

“He get violent?” I ask carefully.

Rhett’s jaw tightens once before he nods.

The kitchen suddenly feels smaller.

“When I was a kid, I used to hide under my bed when they fought.” His voice stays calm, steady, but there’s something rough underneath it now. “My sister would crawl under there with me. She was six the first time he hit our mother bad enough to split her lip.”

Jesus.

I swallow hard, watching him carefully.

“She’d curl up against me and cry herself to sleep while they screamed at each other down the hall.” His gaze drifts briefly toward the storm outside. “After a while, I stopped being scared of him.”

“What happened instead?”

His eyes come back to mine. “I got angry.”

The words settle heavily between us.

I believe that instantly.

Not because Rhett feels dangerous to me.

Because I think he’s dangerous for people who hurt others.

“There wasn’t much money growing up,” he continues. “Small house. Thin walls. No place to hide except under that damn bed.” A humorless smile touches his mouth briefly. “I used to keep a hunting knife under the mattress because I thought if he ever really hurt her, I’d stab him.”

A chill moves through me.

“How old were you?”

“Ten.”

The answer guts me quietly.

I look at this massive, intimidating man standing in front of me and suddenly I can see it underneath everything else. The boy he used to be. Angry. Helpless. Listening to his mother cry through paper-thin walls.

“She’s okay now?” I ask softly.

“Yeah.” His expression shifts slightly at that. “Married some Navy mechanic in Pensacola. Got three kids now. Loud house. Good husband.”

“You sound proud of her.”

“I am.”

Something tightens low in my chest.

Because he says it so simply.

So honestly.

“And your parents?”

“Dead.”