𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐄

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

BLEEDING DIFFERENTLY

The wind shifted.

It moved through the trees at the edge of the course and passed right between them. We were standing in silence, holding the weight of five years that hadn’t been forgiven.

My grip on the club loosened. I didn’t look at him as I spoke. “If I found her first, I wouldn’t have hidden her like you did.”

I let the words sink in, looking at Dacre’s face. “I wouldn’t have kept her locked away like a secret, like something to be ashamed of.”

“That’s what you think I did?” His mouth twitched. “You have no idea what it was like.”

“I don’t have to.” I shot back. “You kept her like she was yours to keep, like the rest of us didn’t matter.”

“She didn’t remember you.” He said, his tone clipped. “She didn’t remember anything. I gave her a life.”

“What is she, a doll? You gave her your life. You built a world where no one could get to her, not even the people who knew her before she forgot.”

Dacre stepped closer. “You think barging back in now is what she needs?”

“You didn’t give her a choice.”

“Teagan made her choice, Roux.”

“No. You made sure there was only one option. Yours.”

His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching. “You’re talking like I was the villain.”

“You’re talking like you weren’t.”

Dacre and I stared at each other for a long second, years of brotherhood, rivalry, and silence pressing in from all sides.

“You’re mad because you know what would happen next.”

Dacre remained composed, but I know my brother very well.

“If she starts to remember everything, she’s going to realize exactly who you are.”

He laughed. It was short and hollow. “And what? She’s going to run to you?”

“I didn’t say that.” I murmured. “You did.”

That hit.

His fingers twitched near his glove, but he didn’t say anything. His knuckles flexed like they needed somewhere to land. I turned my back on him, ready to leave.

—

“Roux.”

He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch me over his shoulder.

I closed the distance in three hard strides and swung. My fist smashed into the side of Roux’s jaw with full force. The sound of it cracked across the open field.

His head jerked sideways, causing his foot to skid in the grass, nearly losing his balance. However, he managed to regain his footing. Slowly, he stood up, lifting a hand to the corner of his lip and wiping the blood now dripping from the split.

I know that look. The one he always gave me when he thought he had the moral high ground, and I hated that.

“Fucking hell,” He muttered, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

Roux let the club fall to the ground with a dull thud. He turned fully, squared his shoulders, and the second he stepped in, his fist landed across my face.

My head rocked back. Pain burst through my cheekbone. I took a hit, surged forward, drove my shoulder into his chest, and tackled him to the ground.

We slammed into the grass, and the fight stopped being about Teagan, about memory, nor betrayal. It became about destruction.

I hit Roux hard, once in the ribs, then in the gut. He grunted, twisted his body, and brought his elbow on the back of my head.

My vision went black for half a second, but I kept swinging. His forearm caught my throat, and I drove my knee to his side, hard enough to hear the air explode from his lungs.

Roux’s knuckles sliced my lip open, making me taste my own blood. I was ready to throw another punch, but he mounted me like someone who knew exactly what he was doing, and he didn’t hesitate.

I punched Roux three times — mouth, cheek, and temple. He jerked, grabbing a fistful of my hair as he yanked me down into a headbutt.

—

The doorbell rang once.

I glanced up from the kitchen, my hands still sticky from baking. I frowned as I rinsed them under the sink, dried them off on a kitchen towel, and made my way down the hallway toward the front door.

It was quiet outside, and I wasn’t expecting anyone.

I opened the door, and immediately forgot how to breathe. Roux was standing there — barely.

He looked like he’d walked through hell and hadn’t quite made it out. His shirt was half-torn, stained with blood and dirt, clinging to his frame like it had been soaked and left to dry.

One side of his face was swollen badly, his lip split, and dried blood crusted along his jaw, down his neck, and across the collar of his shirt. A fresh gash ran just above his eyebrow, still oozing faintly, and his right eye was almost swollen shut.

He just stared at me, and even though his expression didn’t change, I could see how hard he was trying to stay upright, then he moved.

“Teagan.”

It was only a single step forward, but it looked like it cost him everything he had left. His foot hit the threshold, his shoulders dipped forward, and the rest of him followed.

He collapsed — hard and fast.

There was no time to react. His knees buckled, his whole body dropped, and I flinched as the side of his face hit the porch with a dull, sickening thud. I heard the impact more than I saw it.

“Roux!”

I dropped to the floor beside him, already trying to lift him, check him, do something. He was heavier than I remembered, dead weight now. His body was limp, his breathing shallow.

“Roux...”

I turned him onto his side as carefully as I could, one hand on his shoulder, the other searching for a pulse. His skin was clammy, and my palm came away red with blood when I touched his arm.

“Miguel!” I called my father in law, loud and desperate. “Roux is hurt!”

Heavy footsteps sounded above — slow at first, like whoever was moving didn’t believe the urgency, then I saw him appear at the top of the stairs.

He stopped on the third step when his eyes landed on us. His jaw clenched. No surprise in his expression, no panic. Just a long, hard stare.

“What happened?” He asked flatly, like he was already tired of the answer.

“He showed up like this.” I said quickly, still struggling to hold Roux up. “He collapsed. He only said my name. He’s barely breathing.”

Miguel didn’t ask anything else. He came down the stairs, stiff and controlled. When he reached the bottom, he looked Roux over — eyes narrowing at the blood, at the split lip, and at the swelling on one side of his face. He sighed.

“For God’s sake.” He muttered, stepping in and taking Roux from me without ceremony. “Roux always has to bleed his way in.”

He hoisted him up with practiced ease, like this wasn’t the first time one of his sons had ended up like this, like he was used to carrying the weight of their messes, and had long since stopped offering comfort about it.

TO BE CONTINUED.