“Don’t,” Donald ordered and I tore my eyes from Damian to see Donald standing at the wall of the foyer, hand pressed against it, that hand clearly holding him up. His face was pale, his eyes on his son wounded, and I hadn’t seen him for a while but he’d always seemed younger than his years, his humor and love of life making him that way. But in that moment he looked beyond his seventy-two years and well into his nineties.

At the sight of him, a wave of pain rolled through me. My hands went to Brock’s arms, my fingers curling around, one at my chest, one at my belly and Brock’s arms got tighter.

“That’s why,” Donald whispered to his son.

“Dad,” Damian whispered back.

“That’s why we lost Tess.”

I felt tears fill my eyes.

Donald didn’t look away from Damian when he whispered a tortured, “You raped her?”

“It wasn’t—” Damian started. My body straightened, the tears vanished, and I interrupted him.

“It was,” I snapped and Damian looked at me.

“Tess”—he shook his head and started to lift a hand—“things just got out of hand.”

Oh.

My.

God.

Brock made a noise low in his throat, his arms going super-tight around me but I didn’t read these warning signs because I lost it again.

“Out of hand?” I shrieked.

“Tess—” Damian started again, his eyes darting back and forth between me and Brock and, honest to God, it looked like he was weighing the decision to approach.

“Don’t you get near me, you motherfucking asshole,” I clipped. “And, newsflash, Damian. A woman is fighting you tooth and nail, screaming, ‘No!’ at the top of her lungs, crying uncontrollably, and begging you to stop and you still fuck her that… is… rape even if she is your goddamned wife.”

Brock’s super-tight arms convulsed twice through this speech but I only had concentration enough for Damian, who winced.

Then he said softly, “You left the next day, Tess. You never gave me a chance to explain.”

I felt my eyebrows hit my hairline.

“Explain?” I asked. “Explain?” I repeated my question. “Are you fucking high?”

“Tess, I was—”