The only traditions we had growing up involved waiting to see who would get knocked around first. And if it wasn’t by our father, it was by each other.

This place has never been home. At least not to me. Even when Therese tried her damn hardest, it never happened.

Blythe sits beside me, her posture poised but at ease. Playing her part too well. She’s good at this—at slipping into whatever role she needs to survive. I see it all. The way her fingers brush the edge of her napkin like she’s braising herself. The way her shoulders drop just enough to look relaxed but not vulnerable.

Ledger watches her like he’s picking her apart.

Like he’s waiting for us to make a mistake of some sorts.

“So,” he starts, cutting into his steak with practiced ease. His tone is casual, but his eyes aren’t. “How long were you planning on keeping this marriage a secret?”

I open my mouth, about to say forever, when Blythe beats me to it.

“It’s been an unexpected . . . adjustment,” she says smoothly, reaching for her water. “We’ve been settling in, figuring out life here, and honestly, we didn’t think about the outside until now.”

Ledger’s brow lifts, his amusement barely masked. “Oh, yeah?” He leans forward, elbows on the table. He looks even more animated about this conversation. “And when did this whirlwind romance start?”

Okay, so he’s just being an asshole. My grip tightens around my fork, the dull edge pressing into my palm. A slow burn spreads through my chest. Ledger’s waiting for a reaction. He wants a fight.

“What’s with the interrogation?” My voice stays level, but every nerve in my body coils, ready to snap. “I thought we were here to have a somehow normal family dinner.”

“I’m wondering if you’re just pretending to play family, so we’ll give you your share of the Old Birchwood Timber Company,” Ledger says almost casually.

There it is.

“Fuck you,” I growl, my voice low, the words slicing through the space between us.

Hopper’s voice cuts in, clipped and sharp. “Stop,” he says, probably to Ledger, or maybe it’s to me. Who the fuck knows?

Ledger pushes back from the table, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor. His stance shifts, muscles tensing, hands flexing at his sides. He’s deciding whether to throw a punch.

Blythe flinches.

It’s quick, barely there, but I notice. My gut twists. My protective instincts rise to the surface almost immediately. My hand finds her thigh beneath the table, pressing just enough to ground her. To remind her I’m here to protect her. She doesn’t move, but her breathing is almost normal. Almost.

“It’s okay. Nothing is going to happen to you.” My voice is low, meant only for her, but something in her eyes flickers—uncertainty, maybe disbelief.