He winced as he thought back to the incident two weeks ago. He’d walked in on the scene of his mother crouching in terror on the floor, apologizing and sputtering blood, while his father continued to punch her in the face.
Braxton’s gaze had gone tunnel vision, his only thought to the rip the prick apart, limb by fucking limb. He pulled him off his mother and proceeded to bury his fist in the bastard’s face, again and again and again, as bone broke under his assault. Remy, being the coward he was, shifted into wolf and overpowered Braxton. Braxton had refused to shift. He hated the wolf part of himself, simply because that was the only thing, besides broken bones and bruised organs, the bastard had ever given him.
Clenching his jaw, he stood on the cramped porch and knocked on the front door. The house with its peeling yellow paint was empty of any rocking chairs or decoration, unlike the neighbors’ homes. Even the naked door, void of any wreath, reeked of desperation and hopelessness.
He clenched his fists, ready for the smirking bastard to open the door and ask what the fuck Braxton wanted.
Edgy silence seized his attention.
He turned the cold doorknob, but the door didn’t open.
He wasn’t surprised. His dad always made sure to deadbolt the door when he was beating his mother. Remy Devereaux didn’t like being interrupted when he was in a drunken rage.
He peered into the dark windows and frowned.
That was weird. Even the lamp in the living room was off. For as long as he could remember, his mother always kept that lamp on.
Always.
“Fuck.” Braxton tensed his muscles and rammed his shoulder into the front door. Wood split and splintered as the door swung free from the deadbolt.
“Mom,” he called out. His breathing, now coming faster, seemed to echo into the voluminous space. An ominous hush stole through the house like an invisible entity, sending his heart racing.
His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, and he flipped the wall light switch.
Light flooded the living room but did nothing to alleviate the bleak heaviness that clung to the air. Yet, nothing appeared out of place.
His gaze drifted over the green and yellow plaid couch, raggedy-ass brown recliner, and 1970s coffee table. The drab end tables on either side of the couch held the familiar ugly green glass lamps that his mom had inherited from her mother.
His gaze swept the room. The fireplace was dark and, judging by the chill in the room, there hadn’t been a fire for a few hours. The wood floors gleamed from his mother’s constant waxing in her attempt to make things perfect in her husband’s critical eye.
The pristine appearance of the room did nothing to soothe the unease sliding around in his gut.
“Mom?” he called out louder, panic filling his chest.
He crossed the living room and into the darkened kitchen. His boot slipped sideways as his heel struck a puddle. He reached for the counter to regain his balance.
“The bastard spilled his beer again.” Braxton gritted his teeth and flipped the kitchen light switch.
His breath left his lungs in a whoosh.
A crimson spray of blood dripped down the white kitchen cabinets like a toddler’s attempt at finger painting. Thick drops trailed down the cupboards and puddled onto the yellowed Formica countertops. The nauseating scent of blood stung his nose and made it hard to breathe. It looked like a fucking horror flick.
Every muscle in his body tensed as tremors racked his frame.
A giant smear of blood trailed from the kitchen floor, around the island, and out toward the dining room.
He took a step, his gut contorting, knowing what he was about to find. His heart beat furiously in his ears. Self-hatred filled him for not getting here earlier. He could have saved her if he’d just gotten here earlier.
His heart stopped in his chest. A lifeless body lay sprawled across the white linoleum floor of the dining room in a pool of reflective blood. The orange afghan from the living room sofa had been thrown across the body, leaving only the badly beaten head sticking out. She didn’t even look human.
A cold hard sweat broke out across his body as the room began to spin. Backing up, he grabbed the kitchen island and sucked in a deep breath. Rage melded with guilt until his body trembled.
His father had made good on his promise. Remy had killed his mother.
On shaky legs, Braxton forced himself to step closer. He knelt, his jeans soaking in the pool of thick blood that had leaked out around the afghan. The blanket that was once orange had now been turned into an unrecognizable shade of brown.
He pulled off the afghan. Surprise and then relief flooded his chest as he picked up the heavy gold chain from around the neck.
It was the chain that his father always wore. The corpse belonged to his father, not his mother.