Ryan looked at me, confusion stamped on his young face. It broke my heart to see him so broken like this.

“I don’t know, Mom, I think you’re wrong. I don’t think lying protects other people. I think lying protects only yourself. So if you want me to lie, I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’ve got to tell the truth. Aria deserves to know.”

I had to stop him from doing something he’d regret, something that could destroy his chance at a future. Any admission to Aria could convict him. I could plead with him, but he wasn’t listening.

The words tumbled past my lips before I could pull them back.

“Ryan, your dad isn’t your biological father.”

Chapter 17

Mackenzie

TUESDAY NIGHT

It wasn’t the first time Owen had pointed a gun at me.

The first time was shortly after we’d gotten married during a vicious reaction after I told him I wanted to go on a girls’ getaway with Lily and Robin. That night I learned two important things: placate, then extricate.

“Owen, I’m not the one you want to hurt.” Although my voice remained calm, fear exploded inside me. “Together we can deal with Ryan, but not like this. Think about the risk. Think about Aria. There’s another way to handle it, but not with a gun.”

Owen’s gaze shifted to his trembling hands, then flicked back up at me. I’d managed to soothe him from his rage, but prying the handgun from his tense fingers was another matter.

“I’m here for you, honey,” I assured him. “You and me, a team.”

When his arms slackened, I stepped forward, then lured the weapon from his grip, dewy with sweat.

I carefully placed it on the dresser, then pivoted the barrel toward the wall. I was too distracted to secure the safety switch, which was probably best. Considering how violently my hands shook, I’d probably end up firing off a round instead.

Ever since that day, the day Owen’s real nature clawed its way out of his charming costume, I had developed a fear of guns—well, guns in the wrong hands. After all, I was a dyed-in-the-wool Southerner who grew up with rifles and shotguns, went target shooting with my daddy, always maintaining a healthy respect for a firearm’s power. But then Owen showed me what a gun could do beyond a hole in a wildly flapping target hanging from a branch, or an empty beer can perched on a tree stump. That tiny conical projectile could shred flesh, tear sinew, splatter gray matter. I didn’t want it anywhere near this rampaging Hulk version of Owen.

“I want to kill him, Mac. God help me, I want to hurt him like he hurt my baby girl.” Owen was pacing a hole in the carpet, but at least he was calming down a little.