Rich Prick – Tijan Page 0,56

of those hunches, but I knew.

Something was wrong.

Something was going to happen.

28

Blaise

I pulled in at the same time Zeke came up, three more cars behind him. He’d brought friends. Brian jumped out from his passenger side, with Jamie and Oliver coming out of one of the other two trucks. The last vehicle was my brother’s, and he wasn’t alone either. His entire crew was with him. I only had time to throw him a glare before heading to the house.

We could hear shouting, and then I was inside.

“No! Stephen!”

The sight was not what I was expecting.

Griffith DeVroe used his fists. Often.

I never wanted to think I’d been beaten as a kid, but now that I was older, I knew I had been. He’d hit me, punched me, used his belts on me in a way that was abusive. My mom never knew. I’d been ashamed, and he’d threatened to fuck around even more on her if I told.

All that was rolling through me as I entered the house.

But it wasn’t Griffith beating the shit out of Stephen in front of me; it was the other way around.

Stephen reared back, roaring, and threw another punch. “You.” Punch. “Get.” Punch. “The fuck.” Punch. “Out.” Hit, hit, hit. “Of this house!”

He stopped, his chest heaving.

He was in a suit, his tie thrown over his shoulder. There was blood on his hands and at the corner of his mouth, and he had a nasty looking bruise around one of his eyes. Griffith had gotten a few hits in.

My mom was in the dining area, her hands covering her mouth. Tears streaked over her face, which was deathly white. I cursed, heading for her.

Stephen was shaking Griffith now, and my non-bio dad wasn’t a small guy. He was two hundred and eighty, almost all muscle. Stephen was half his weight, but trimmed up.

Crap. Maybe I’d gotten my violent streak from him too?

“You are scum for what you have done to your wife and son,” Stephen bellowed. “My son! Mine! You will leave their lives and have nothing to do with them. You hear me?” He turned and tossed Griffith across the kitchen.

He started for him, but Cross shoved through the crowd. “Dad!”

Stephen jerked back, looking around. He blinked a few times.

I crossed the kitchen, intending to go to my mom.

She saw me, and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, no.”

I hardened. She didn’t get to cry anymore, not over this asshole.

Stephen fell back a step. “Cross!” Then he saw me. “Blaise.”

Griffith’s functioning eye opened, hearing my name. I saw the old asshole come back to him. Hatred filled that one eye, and the fucker who used to put his fists on me thought he could do it again.

“You little piece of—”

“No!” Stephen roared, going for Griffith.

I got there first. My hands went down, fisting his shirt, and I lifted the fucker to his feet. A good punch of adrenaline eased the strain.

“Don’t!” I roared in his face. “Don’t you say another word. You’re going to do as he said.” My arms started hurting, so I shoved him against the wall. He tried to swing, but I ducked and kicked out his knee.

He crumpled after that.

He was done.

It was all over his face—he loathed me. He wanted to hit me.

I laughed, kneeling next to him. I’d ceased caring who was going to hear me the second I walked inside my home. “You beat me, you miserable piece of fuck.”

I heard a gasp behind me.

“You locked me in closets when she wasn’t around. You threatened me. You threatened her. You used your belts on me. Those days have been gone for a while, but I have evidence.”

His eyes widened.

“I kept a diary. I wrote it all down.”

I felt dead inside. I let him see that. I let him see what he’d done to me.

“You never broke me. Ever. And if you think you’re going to go to the authorities and make some bullshit claim against my real father, I’ll come forward against your ass. Look behind me, Dad. All these guys are witnesses. Not one of them will back you up. Not one.”

His eyes shifted, and they narrowed.

They closed.

When they opened, I knew I was looking at a beaten man, in more ways than one.

I leaned down. “I know about your lawsuit.”

His eyes shifted again, blinking, then focusing on me. I couldn’t name the emotion I saw there. Maybe it was panic? I was beyond being able to read him. He was just an abuser—that’s all I