Page 55 of My Ex's Billionaire Brothers

Theo’s mouth twitches. I snort a laugh, sloshing suds over the rim onto my shirt. Mrs. Markoff just shrugs, the picture of innocent mischief. “What? Strong backs, steady hands, and apparently they wash dishes with no complaints? Spare men are clearly a blessing.”

Anya sputters something about modern relationship dynamics and scurries off for clean towels. I lean my hip against the sink and stage-whisper to her mom, “We also come with a lifetime guarantee.”

Mrs. Markoff grins. “Good, because she’s already got Gage out there building fences gratis.”

Through the window above the sink, I catch Gage and Mr. Markoff fiddling with a level by the fence. Gage straightens, meets my gaze, and flicks a thumb-up. I return a sudsy salute.Good sign.If the big guy’s passed the dad inspection, maybe the rest of this weekend won’t go to shit.

I rinse the last mixing bowl, hand it to Theo. He dries it with a crisp shake of the dish towel—seriously, the man could earn a sommelier pin in kitchen etiquette. I’m two seconds from towel-whipping him when a throaty engine growls down the lane.

My grin slides off. A cherry-red Maserati slews to the curb, sun glinting off chrome like a flashing blade. I know that car.

Calvin. My gut drops to floor tile. How incensed must he be to have driven down here for this? Worse, how stupid is he about to be?

Theo’s towel stills. “Hunter,” he says quietly.

“On it.” I strip off the rubber gloves, toss them into the sink.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

My heartbeat slams into my ribs as something goes calm in my mind. Adrenaline has always done that for me. It doesn’t get me hyped like normal people. It’s a balm to my rage. The thing that makes me useful.

Mrs. Markoff glances up, confusion furrowing her brow. “Well, who’s that?”

“Stay here,” I tell her, gentler than I feel. “We’ll handle it.”

Theo and I meet at the doorway. He rolls his shoulders, straightening his collar like he’s heading into a board meeting. We step onto the porch just as Calvin jerks the car door closed. He looks immaculate—designer linen uncreased, hair sculpted, aviator sunglasses hiding those dead politician eyes. The foot he plants on Anya’s parents’ gravel seems to think the ground is his.

“What kind of bullshit do you think you’re pulling?” Calvin barks before we reach him, voice hopping the picket fence of polite volume. “You steal my fiancée and thought you could get away with it?”

“Ex-fiancée,” Theo corrects, calm but steely.

Calvin sneers as he marches toward us. “After the stunts she’s pulled? She’s lucky I decided to come down here for her.”

Ignoring whatever the fuck that means, I step in front of Theo, fists curling. “Cal, turn the volume down. Not your house.”

He points a manicured finger at my chest. “You don’t get to lecture me on courtesy, Hunter. You’re parading her around like a cheap trophy?—”

Behind me the screen door squeaks. Anya’s mom peers out, Anya just behind her. Calvin’s gaze snaps over my shoulder. He pitches his voice louder. “There you are. Running off with my brothers like a common whore?—”

I don’t remember closing the gap. One second Calvin’s mouth is open, the next my palm meets his cheek with a crack that echoes down the street. He staggers, sunglasses askew. Shock plasters his features as a bright red handprint appears on his cheek. Somewhere in the distance, a neighbor’s screen door bangs.

“Not now. Not here. Not ever.” I grab Calvin by both blazer lapels, lean close enough he can count the ridges of the scar across my knuckles. “Walk away,” I growl. “Cool off before we finish this in a way you won’t like.”

He jerks free, fury overcoming his good sense. He knows my past as well as any of my brothers do. He knows not to fuck with me or mine, and he’s doing it anyway. I can’t say I feel particularly bad about what might happen next.

Calvin spits, “You think this is over, Hunter? You can’t hide her behind this little freak show.” He shifts his glare to Anya. “You won’t humiliate me like this again.”

I snarl, “She did nothing wrong, you piece of shit. Now leave.”

Gage strides up, eyes on Calvin. Theo steps flank-side, phone lifted—not to film, but to call law enforcement if Calvin gets clever. The tableau’s too much for Mr. Markoff. He grabs his hammer and strides toward us from the fence, cedar dust trailing.

Calvin’s survival instinct must have woken. I watch as he calculates the odds like a machine—three furious brothers, one protective father, plus an audience of gawping neighbors. He rights his sunglasses, mouth curling in something that almost hides fear. Almost.

He backs toward his car. “This isn’t finished.”

“Yes, the fuck it is,” I say. My tone is flat iron.

Gravel spits as Calvin peels off, red taillights flashing in petulant Morse code. Silence rushes in, filled only by cicadas and the distant surf. Screens creak as curious neighbors retreat inside.