“That’s enough.”

Tuck shut his mouth so fast that Shaw heard teeth click together.

For another long moment, Shaw studied Tucker, the waspish handsomeness partially buried under gore and pain and what was perhaps the first time Tucker Laguerre had really had his ass handed to him. “You fell down the stairs. Say it.”

“I fell down the stairs.”

Shaw nodded. “Just remember: if I see North with so much as a papercut. Doesn’t matter if he got it from opening a piece of mail.” Shaw laughed with sudden surprise. “Christ, you better hope he doesn’t get in any accidents because then I really will come back.”

Tucker was trembling. As adrenaline continued to pump through his system, as the shock wore off, rage was replacing the fear and submission that had given Shaw the upper hand. But Tuck didn’t look at Shaw, not in the eyes. Not quite.

Giving the nine iron a jaunty little whirl, Shaw stepped back. “I’m going to keep this, is that all right?”

Tuck stared at the floor, fury mottling his cheeks.

With an easy swing, Shaw banged the club against the step next to Tuck’s head.

“Yes, fuck, you can have the whole fucking set, just get the fuck out.”

“Have a good night, Tuck.”

Chapter 37

North took the stairs up to Shaw’s bedroom two at a time, the Red Wings coming down like thunderclaps as he launched himself up. It was Wednesday evening, the first real chance North had found to escape the hospital and check on Shaw. North had insisted on keeping the office closed all week—against Shaw’s very vocal objections. Shaw had a way of digging in his heels about things, and when North had raised the issue of keeping the office closed, it had looked like it was going to be one of those times. North had been worried enough about Shaw that he’d done something he didn’t like to do: he’d cheated. He’d pretended to get emotional. He’d pretended not to be able to talk. And then he’d said a few broken words about Tuck still being in the hospital after that bad fall Sunday night, and Shaw had melted like a fucking popsicle.

A few days shouldn’t have seemed very long, but right now, shooting up the stairs, North felt like years had passed. Some of that had been the hours in the hospital with first Shaw and then Tucker—broken collar bone, hairline fracture on the thigh, and the worst was some internal bleeding where something, maybe the banister, had hit Tuck hard in the side—but most of that feeling of years passing had come from the simple fact that North was out of his fucking mind with worry.

As he reached the top of the steps, he forced himself to slow, to take the last few at a normal pace, to let his breathing settle. What had happened with Matty and Shaw, the little that Shaw had been willing to discuss, had been like some grotesque magnification of what had happened when Shaw and Carl had been attacked near the end of freshman year. Shaw had inflicted most of the physical damage himself, trying to get free of the ropes, but it wasn’t a few lacerations—not even the deep ones—that made it hard for North to breathe when he really got thinking about things.