Warmth runs over me like a balm. “It was my idea, and we both know it. I’m not leaving you in a lurch, Macon. It wouldn’t sit right.”

With a huff of clear frustration, he runs his free hand over his hair. “I don’t want this anymore,” he rasps, so low I almost miss it over the din of the crowd. “Not if it comes at the expense of your happiness.”

I don’t know what to say. Our arrangement sits like a cloud over us, but so does Sam’s theft. In the dark corners of my mind, I wonder if my reluctance has anything to do with Sam. Or if it’s all Macon.

“My happiness was never part of the equation,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.

Macon opens his mouth to retort but catches sight of something behind me, and his body jolts as if hit. Blood drains from his face, turning his skin the color of sun-dried mud. I step toward him, my fingers touching his wide wrist, and find his pulse racing.

“Macon . . . ?” But I then see what he sees, and my mouth dries.

The man striding toward us is an older, grayer version of Macon. Same beautifully carved bone structure, same slanting brows and coal-dark eyes. Only his mouth is different, thin and flat with a bitterness that appears to be a permanent affliction. There is a bloated look about his neck and face from hard drinking, a reddened cast to his puffy skin.

George Saint wastes no time with pleasantries as he stops in front of his son. “Knew I’d find you here, prancing like a peacock in front of the press. Always were desperate for attention.”

Macon has regained some of his color, and his voice comes out hard and sharp. “I’d say something about the pot calling the kettle black, but you don’t have enough self-awareness to get it.”

George Saint narrows his eyes, and while the gesture is reminiscent of Macon’s, it holds such cold ugliness that in that instant, they look nothing alike. “I thought I beat the disrespect out of you. Clearly I should have hit harder.”

My blood runs ice cold at his words, and I expel a breath that hurts when it leaves my lungs.

Though he doesn’t look my way, Macon hears me and shifts his weight, his wide shoulders half blocking my view as if he’s trying to put a wall of defense between me and his father. “The only thing your hits taught me was to hate.” Macon’s words are nails punching deep. “But understand this well. I hit back now. And I hit much harder.”

George’s florid skin pales before the red returns with a vengeance. “You owe me my due, boy.”