Page 75 of For Fillies and Monsters

She has to know Gibson and her stalker are two different people—one who gets off on hurting her and one who gets off on hurtingforher. I need to find Gibson. I need to be the one to punish him for tormenting my girl for years, trying to break her body and spirit, for hurting her the way only a parent could. Istill dream about the marks I saw on her neck that first night, and I want to repay the favor to dear old Dad, only I won’t stop until his neck snaps in two beneath my hands.

Stetson is strong and able to embrace her demons; it’s one of the many things I love about her. But she shouldn’t have to face her demons on her own, and when you have a monster on your side, why should she?

I will do it for her, and revel in their pain.

The computer whirs louder, the humid morning air causing the stupid thing to overheat rapidly, and I slam the top shut. I’m not finding anything useful as it is. Very few details are known about either man, other than they are horrible drunks with gambling problems, and came from an equally abusive household. Their old man sounded like a real piece of work—trouble with some Mexican cartels or something. If I had to guess, Craig, at least, owes someone a lot of money. The way he’s rabidly come after Stetson, all bark for now but frothing at the mouth for more, I can tell he’s feeling pressure.

I know a cornered dog when I see one.

I know how destructive they can be to the people standing in the way of their potential escape. Stetson is that person for Craig, and I know he will only get more reckless as the days wear on to the invisible deadline. I won’t let anything happen to her, though.I will protect her even if I have to get blood on my hands.

I’m shoving away from the small table, the bench beneath me groaning when I hear crunching coming down the driveway. I pause, lifting my hand to shield my eyes from the sun to see who it could be—it’s early for someone to be coming by. I reach for my phone to call Stetson and see if she’s expecting anyone—the perfect excuse to break her vow of silence—and then stop.

If I ever had a nightmare, this would be it.

The sleek black motorcycle hums as it drives toward thedeck, only stopping when he’s close enough to pelt the wood with a spray of sand. And by ‘he’, I mean McCrae—the man I hoped to never see again. Truly, I told him as much when I wrote the note telling him I was taking the truck and leaving for good—it was the least of what he owed me.

I watch him, breath strangled in my throat as he pulls the key from the ignition and turns those haunting blue eyes toward me. He’s aged since I saw him last, but some things are still the same. He’s still a solid foot taller than me, having taken after our dad’s genetics, but with dirty blonde hair he kept shaggy like our mother; only now, he’s graying at the temples. His face is covered in the same dirty blonde beard and mustache, a black tattoo crawling under his pale blue eyes like he’s had for years, only there’s a second, newer one to match on the other side now.

Maybe I should run?You’re thirty-five fucking years old. Don’t be a coward.

I look away from his penetrating gaze, taking in the white scars peppering his tan neck and arms, remembering the long one slashing through his upper lip that can only be seen when his face is shaved—which it hasn’t been in over ten years. McCrae always had a devastating smile, one that I had loved when I was younger, full of bright teeth, that I would do just about anything to pull from him. But I haven’t seen it since my parents died, and based on his menacing stare, today will not be the day I break the twenty-year streak. I scour his tattoos, dozens of new ones covering the exposed skin I can see—dates, faces, and symbols, but I can’t make out many of them from this distance.

McCrae has always been a lady killer. Growing up, women flocked pastmyboyish looks to cling to the rugged man that is my older brother. He is dangerous and formidable, and every woman’s wet dream. I look nothing like him, and as a boy, thatbothered me. Now I’m grateful—I might look scary, but my looks don’t hold a candle to McCrae. In his plain white t-shirt, jeans that sag on his hips, and a black leather jacket—the same black leather jacket that he has always worn, muted with years of wear—he should look simple, plain even.

Except, I’ve learned my lesson the hard way to not underestimate him.

He is a cold, empty shell of a human. He sucks the life and joy out of everything and everyone, and here he is in the one place I want to be, with the only human alive I want to protect.

What the fuck does he want? How did he find me?

“Brother.” The word cuts through the morning air like a blade. I nod, dropping my hand from my face. I cuss myself when it wobbles.

“What are you doing here?” I muster as much indifference as my racing heart will allow.

McCrae prowls toward the stairs, and I plant my feet. He notices the movement and pauses, a small smirk tilting his lips, and I cringe. It isn’t a friendly look.

“Not going to invite me in?”

“No chance.” The words hang between us, and McCrae looks annoyed, but another emotion flickers there, too. Is it impressed?Can’t be.He sighs, taking a single step back to look up at me.

“You’ve gotten old,” McCrae states dryly.

“Look who’s talking. At least I’m not, what, forty this year?”

“I bet I could still steal your girl.”

I blink, and then spring into action, taking a step toward him—this man who is the demon in every one of my worst memories. I will get blood on my hands to protect Stetson, even if it is my brother’s.

Growling, I challenge, “Don’t even think about getting near her.”

McCrae sighs, an act of boredom he always puts on, like I’m just an annoying child, and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He fondles a single smoke between his fingers, seeming to contemplate what to say next. He roughly shoves the stick between his lips, lighting the end with a black lighter, and takes a long drag, shutting his eyes in the process. He holds the smoke for several beats before finally exhaling, his eyes snapping open to look at me.

The look is not playful, or kind. Instead, it is the look that haunts me most—the one that I have only seen glimpses of between the annoyed, disappointed, angry, or exhausted ones I normally get.The dead look.

“You have to back off of her. And that little Hispanic girl she hangs out with.” I stare at him and bark a laugh. The sound is loud and hollow in the morning air.

“So, I have someone, for the first time in my life, and you’re what? Threatened? Angry? Disappointed?” I straighten my back, refusing to back down even as my heart pounds wildly in my chest. “What’s fucking new? You haven’t been able to control my life for the last few years. But now you found me,” I spread my arms, indicating the space around us, “and you want to ruin any chance of happiness I might make for myself.”

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