Before I could make an attempt to soothe his obvious tension, one of the most irritating sounds in the known universe halted our progress.

“Heya, Stroke.”

Ack.

I knew that voice.

It was the cuss monster.

I looked to the left just as Martin did the same, then I glanced up at Martin’s face. He was clearly perturbed and confused.

“What are you doing here? Why didn’t you go back with everyone else?” Martin’s grip on me tightened just a fraction as we turned to face Ben.

“Didn’t see a good reason to go back yet,” Ben said, before taking an obnoxious sip of what appeared to be a strawberry daiquiri through an oversized straw.

“Because I told you to leave. How about that for a good reason?” Martin’s tone was flat, hard, and irritated.

I pressed my lips together to keep from making any kind of facial expression.

Meanwhile, Ben shrugged again, but sounded positively elated as he said, “But your dad invited me to stay, so I did. Besides, I’ve decided to quit the team, so you can go fuck yourself.”

I felt tension roll through Martin—gathering—tangible in how he stood and the measured way he drew breath. But before he could respond, we were interrupted.

“Marty.” This came from the top of the wide staircase and echoed through the foyer. The man waited until both Martin and I looked at him before continuing. His pale blue eyes rested on me. “I thought you’d left the island.”

Denver Sandeke, Martin’s father, was taller than I thought he’d be. Taller and not nearly as scrawny. He wasn’t a good-looking man; his chin was almost non-existent and his nose was oddly shaped, thin and long. As well, he was either a member or the president of the hair club for men. With his entrance I felt a shift.

Whereas before Martin was and had always been the center of focus, the “alpha of the pack” as Sam put it, now his father’s presence demanded the spotlight. In truth, neither of them clearly dominated the other. It wasn’t shared power; it was dual power that co-existed very, very badly, like when two acid-base reactions are after the same proton.

“No,” Martin said. The frost in the single word seemed to lower the temperature of the room by several degrees. It seemed that Denver, like his wife, brought out the Abominable Snowman in Martin.

Denver didn’t respond to Martin. Instead he sauntered down the steps, his eyes still on me, a friendly smile affixed to his lips. I noted that the shape of his mouth was similar to Martin’s. “You’re Joss Parker’s daughter.” He sounded immensely pleased. Meanwhile something about the way he used my mother’s first name made me want to pluck out all his nose hairs.

I started to respond, but Martin tugged on my hand and shifted so he was half blocking me from his father, like he was protecting me with his body. “We’re leaving.”

Denver ignored his son and offered me his hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. I know your mother quite well. She is,” he chuckled to himself, “she is certainly a force.”

“Don’t touch her.” As Martin said this he moved me completely behind him, and with one hand on my hip, guided us a step back toward the door. I noted that he still faced his father, almost like he knew better than to turn his back.

My view of his father was obscured now that the mountain of Martin was between us, but I heard the change in Denver’s voice as he addressed his son.

“You finally did something useful, Marty. You’re still the village idiot, but at least your dick makes smart choices.”

I heard Ben fake-suppress an obnoxious guffaw, but I barely registered it as my brain was still trying to grasp the venom that had erupted from Martin’s father’s mouth.

His father!

And yet, even knowing what I did about Martin, even knowing he had a history of callous indifference toward the feelings of others and had no qualms about yelling at men, women, children, and turtles, I was completely unprepared for his response.

“Better the village idiot than the village pervert and impotency expert. By the way, Ben here used your entire stash of Viagra earlier this week. You two flaccid assholes have so much in common.”

Martin’s father tsked and responded coolly, “Careful, Marty. Or I might decide to break your new toy.”

“You even fucking look at her and they won’t find your body.” Martin took another step back, taking me with him.

This was completely crazy. I thought the run-in with his stepmother was vicious—this took vicious to a whole new level.

“You forget who bankrolls your life, son.” I winced as Denver said the word son. In context, coming from Denver’s mouth, it sounded more like whore. “Your toys are my toys, and I’ll use them whenever and however I please. Now step aside, you’re not going anywhere until I say so.”

I felt Martin tense. He released my hand and I saw both of his were balled into fists. He shifted on his feet, his stance bracing, like he was about to throw a punch. Martin was big, but his father was also big; as well, Ben the rapist was clearly on Team Evil’s side. Two against one was hardly fair. I might be able to call for Eric before the situation escalated, but that was unlikely.

Tangentially, I wondered how many times Martin and his father had come to blows, but pushed the thought away for later contemplation. I couldn’t stay where I was, silent, hiding. Now was not the time for me to hide, not when Martin was putting himself into harm’s way on my behalf. I needed to do something.

Now was not the time to bow out gracefully. Now was the time to fight for Martin.

Since Martin was no longer holding me behind him, I stepped to his side and slipped my left arm around his right elbow.

Placing a thin smile on my face, I addressed Denver. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake your hand. As I’ve met your wife and see the company you keep,” I nodded toward Ben, “you’ll understand if I’m wary of communicable diseases. As Ben will tell you, not touching people I don’t know is one of my life rules.”

I was gratified to find my small speech had stunned all the testosterone in the room into inaction. Three sets of male eyes stared at me as though I were a strange creature.

I cleared my throat and continued, “I have no interest in knowing you, Mr. Sandeke. All I want is my vector calculus folder and then we’ll be leaving.”

Though Denver’s eyes were on me, he spoke to his son. “I’m looking at her now, Marty. What are you going to do about it?”

Martin shifted restlessly at my side but I tightened my grip around his arm and responded for both of us, my voice conversational. “Again, I’ll just take my vector calculus notebook and we’ll be on our way.”

“No. You won’t.” If Denver’s wife had dead-face, Denver Sandeke had dead eyes.

Channeling my mother, I drew myself up straighter and glared at him square in his beady dead eyes. “Actually, we will. You see, Martin told me before we came over that you were a wee little worm of a man. Therefore, I made a call to my mother’s security team. You may have heard of the US Secret Service? …Yes? …No?”

Mr. Sandeke shifted a half step back, his gaze narrowing on me.

“Ah. I see you’ve heard of them. Despite all their guns and shooting and whatnot, they’re actually very nice men.” I moved to side step him and pulled Martin with me, careful never to give him our backs. “Now, we’ll just be getting that notebook then we’ll get out of…well, we’ll get out of your hairpiece.”

***

On the up side, I had my folder. I also managed to collect my missing textbook and clothes—so, double bonus.

On the down side, Martin had barely spoken since we’d left the mansion. He also wouldn’t look at me and had made no move to touch me beyond helping with my bags, offering me his hand on the boat, and guiding me to my seat on the plane—so, double whammy.

Also, his father was basically Satan, but with no chin.

Regardless, I didn’t regret meeting the man. Meeting Denver swiftly explained many things about Martin, brought so much of his behavior and motivations into painfully sharp focus.

Now, as I eyeballed Martin from my seat, I noted that his face was red, flushed with color, and his eyes were a bit wild. I knew he was still thinking about his father and I knew his emotions were very, very near the surface. His seething anger radiated from him, like a billowing cloud of dark rage.

Honestly, I felt like one wrong move, or word, or glance, and he might trash the inside of the private jet…or scream at me. As such, all four of us had been silent. Even Sam saw fit to keep her sarcasm bottled up as she thumbed silently through a magazine like it held the answers to the perfect tennis game.

I was again faced with the reality that I didn’t know the right thing to say to my boyfriend. As I stewed in this realization, I further recognized that being held hostage by his anger bothered me more than the possibility of getting yelled at.

My nagging disquiet grew as I watched him, his jaw clenching and unclenching, his breathing purposefully slow. He was so alone, entirely focused inward, lost in a dark place. This was where Martin Sandeke lived and how he’d learned to survive. I couldn’t stand it.

I loved him.

Watching him fumbling through the labyrinth of his wrath was akin to my unreachable itch, except this time it was in my brain and heart.