Page 21 of This Violent Reckoning

“He better fucking not.”

Merc, being the little shit he is, showed up the next night with leftovers from dinner that Evie had made. I watched as Maddox’s face turned red with rage, and I had to yell for him not to flip my damn table or slam Merc through it. Merc, smart enough to realize the danger, raced outside. It didn’t stop Maddox, though—he was practically shaking with fury. I then watched that big bastard chase Mercy all over the backyard for twenty minutes. It was like a God damn circus, but eventually, Maddox cornered him, wrapped him in a headlock, and landed a blow to his stomach that knocked the air right out of him.

Maddox sat down beside me on the porch with a smug, satisfied grin plastered on his face as we watched Mercy struggle to catch his breath for a few seconds. Finally, the little shit joined us, gasping but too proud to admit he was beaten.

“You fucking behemoth,” Mercy pants.

“You little fucking punk.”

“At least I’m not the one sleeping on his brother’s couch because his fine ass wife is too pissed to look at him,” Merc fires back, grinning like the devil. “Swear to God, Maddox, them cutoff shorts she was wearin’? I almost asked her if she needed help flippin' pancakes.”

I shake my head, laughing low in my throat. Watching them like that—wild, stubborn, alive—reminds me why I’d die for these fuckers. God, I love my brothers.

Chapter Seven

YOU’VE BEEN ONE HELLUVA MAMA TO ME

LOUISIANA

“Well, I’m not surprised. Evie’s the only person other than Aunt Joe who can put him in his place,” my sister calls over her shoulder, her voice carrying easily over the hum of the kitchen. Her hands move with practiced grace, spreading pale pink icing over her signature strawberry cupcakes like she was born to do it—smooth, confident, sure. The scent of vanilla, crushed berries, and warm sugar lingers in the air, sticking to my skin like summer heat.

Sophie isn’t wrong. Hell, none of us expected it would take Evie three—nearly four—days before she let Maddox drag his sorry ass back home.

Evie and Maddox are a damn mess sometimes. But that is the thing about them—their love never needs to be pretty to be real. They don’t tiptoe around each other or patch things over with fake smiles and forced apologies. They fight hard, love harder, and always find their way back, even if it means crawling through the wreckage. And somehow, they are stronger for it. It is a kind of brutal honesty I both respect and envy.

I finish placing the blackberry danishes into the front display case, carefully lining them up in neat, even rows. Each one glistens with a sticky sheen, dark purple filling just barely peeking out from golden folds of pastry. If I leave them crooked, Sophie will be on my ass about it—she has an eye for presentation and a tongue like a whip when it comes to her standards. Me? I’d slap those bitches in there like they owe me money and call it a day.

I wipe my hands on a towel tucked into my waistband and head back into the kitchen. The linoleum sticks slightly under my soles from the morning’s sugar dusting, and the clatter of baking trays, the low thump of the stand mixer, and the occasional hiss of steam from the industrial dishwasher builds a familiar soundtrack.

As I pass her, I glance at Sophie. She’s got one foot propped on the lower cabinet door, her hip cocked as she leans in over the counter, lost in her rhythm. There’s a streak of flour across her temple, a dusting of powdered sugar clinging to her shirt, and her soft hums thread through the air like background music to a life she’s built from the ground up.

Butter and Crumbs is her baby—born from too many sleepless nights, a little stubbornness, and a hell of a lot of heart. She poured herself into every corner of this place, from the chipped mason jars on the counter to the chalkboard menu she made me rechalk by hand every damn week. I split my time between Bangers and helping her keep this dream afloat—whatever she needs, whenever she asks. Cleaning up, restocking shelves, testing new flavors that don’t taste like garbage. I might not be a baker, but I know how to show up, and that counts for something.

I pause for a moment, leaning back against the counter, watching her work. A soft smile pulls at my mouth. Sophie has always had this gift—this quiet, unwavering ability to create something beautiful out of nothing. She doesn’t need grand gestures or applause. Just flour, butter, and her stubborn heart. No wonder the whole damn town came running back the moment her doors opened.

Just don’t ask me to cook. I can’t even boil water without supervision. A fact Aunt Joe loves to remind me of, usually loud enough for everyone in the tri-county area to hear. If it’s a family gathering, I’m not the one sweating over the stove—I’m the one showing up with two bags of ice, a cooler full of drinks, and no shame in my game. But don’t get it twisted—I may not cook, but I damn sure eat. I’m the one double-fisting plates, balancing another in my lap, already planning my second round before the first bite hits my tongue. Nobody ever has to worry about me going hungry.

Sophie glances up from her cupcake decorating, a smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth. “How’s the nursery coming along? You finish it yet?”

I pick at a hangnail on my pointer finger, peeling the skin back until it stings. I don’t look at her. Just focus on the sting and the burn, something sharp enough to distract me. “Not yet.”

There’s a pause—just long enough to make the air feel heavier. Sophie wipes the sugar dust from her fingers onto her apron, then steps closer. She reaches out and places her hand over mine. Warm. Steady. A weight I’m not ready to carry.

“Lou,” she says, so soft it barely registers. My name leaves her lips like a prayer whispered in a chapel—tender, reverent.

It guts me.

My throat tightens, dry and raw, like I’ve swallowed glass. My nose burns. My eyes sting, brimming with tears I won't let fall. Not here. Not in front of her.

“It’s okay to feel whatever you’re feeling,” she says.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Soph.” It comes out low and rough, like gravel scraping pavement. Meaner than I meant it to be. But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t take her hand back. She just stays there—calm, rooted—like the storm brewing in me doesn’t scare her.

Her wheat-colored eyes hold mine, steady and unshaken. There’s a kind of patience in them that makes my chest ache, because I know I don’t deserve it. Not when I’m this bitter. This broken.

“It’s okay to be angry, Louisiana. It’s okay to be jealous.”

No.