Page 116 of Talk Wicked to Me

“Baz.”

Blinded by his protective urges and stone-cold fear, he was vaguely aware of Emerson hurrying down the steps as he went head-to-head with the guy. “Where were you when she was dead on her feet with exhaustion? When she had mastitis and a raging fever?”

“He’s my son,” the guy said angrily. “I have a right—”

“You think you can just show up out of the blue and stake claim? He’s a child, not a fucking afterthought. You made your decision months ago.”

“Baz, stop.” Emerson grabbed his arm.

“This guy doesn’t know shit about Brennan.”

“I know that, but Marco is Brennan’s father—”

“Birth father,” Baz seethed, eyeing the man. “You know what? You’re not even that. You’re the fucking sperm donor.”

“Baz, that’s enough,” Emerson pleaded. “Please give us a few minutes to talk.”

“Who the hell is this guy?” Marco asked.

Leveling him with a dark stare, Baz said, “I’m the man who brought Brennan into this world and has been there for both of them every day since.”

“Okay, he gets it.” Emerson stepped between them, holding Brennan with one arm and putting her other hand on Baz’s chest. “Now, will you please let me hear him out?”

“Fine, you talk. I’ll take Brennan inside.” He reached for Brennan.

She put her arms protectively around the baby. “It’s okay. I’ve got him. We won’t be long.” She turned away, and he felt it like a knife to the chest.

STRAIGHTEN, BREATHE, SWING.

Baz brought the ax down, and a crack rang out as the log split. He tossed the two pieces on the pile of logs he’d already split and set another log on the chopping block. Straighten, breathe, swing. Crack. Toss. Straighten, breathe, swing. Crack. Toss. His head was fucking spinning. He didn’t know how long he’d been at it, while Emerson talked with the prick out front, but it was too fucking long.

Straighten, breathe, swing. Crack. Toss.

Straighten, breathe, swing. Crack. Toss.

He reached for another log and heard a car engine turning over. He tossed the ax into the grass and headed around front, meeting Emerson on the side of the house. He tried to read her expression, but it only made him more conflicted. “Is he gone?”

“Yeah. He’s getting a hotel for the night.”

“He’s not fucking leaving?”

“No,” she snapped.

“I thought he wanted a clean slate. How’d he even find you?”

“He called when he was mugged because it was around the corner from my apartment, so when I bought the cottage, I texted him to let him know I was moving away. That doesn’t matter. He wants to be in Brennan’s life, and he and I need to figure things out. That’s going to take some time.”

“You two have to figure it out?” What the fuck?

She was agitated, pacing. “Yes. I have a lot to think about.”

“You have a lot to think about?” He couldn’t keep his voice from escalating. “Not us, but you.”

“Yes. Why is this so hard for you to understand? Brennan is my son, and I have to figure out what’s best for him.”

His chest constricted, and he tried to drag air into his lungs. “And where exactly do we fit into this equation?”

She looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “How can you ask that? I love what we have, but I can’t make a life decision for my son based on anyone but me—”