Page 44 of Holding Hope

“We kept seeing each other all summer,” she continued. “It was easy to keep it a secret since you were always working or preparing for the convention.”

She sighed. “I didn’t want to keep it from you. It’s just…”

I nodded sympathetically. I would’ve told her what I was thinking now—that Colt wasn’t good for her. That she deserved better.

Delia was beautiful, polished, educated, determined. She could have anyone she wanted. Why him? Why my brother?

Even as kids, her obsession with him had baffled me. Maybe because I lived with him—I saw the parts he hid from her. The parts he hid from everyone.

Would she still love him when she saw those parts?

Would he let her?

“I understand,” I said softly, squeezing her hand. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t around much last summer. I didn’t mean to leave you with only him for company.”

“I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the best summer of my life,” Delia whispered, tangling our fingers together. “He’s all I’ve ever wanted, Clarke. And last summer, I had him.”

Her orange brows furrowed together, deepening the wrinkles across her forehead. “And then he went back to Nashville, and it was as if what we had shared had never happened. I’ve been trying to get him to talk to me, but whatever door opened last year was locked shut.”

That—that—was my brother. Disappearing. Leaving. Never talking things out. Never explaining. And the girls he left behind always paid the price. There was a particular shame that came with being involved with Colton King.

“I’m sorry,” I said, letting out a humorless laugh. “Had I known, I would’ve kicked his ass or dragged him back to Texas by his hair.”

I was trying really, really hard not to get up from the couch and storm straight into his homestead. Delia wasn’t just another one of his conquests, another buckle bunny Avalon had joked about days ago. He knew Delia. He’d grown up with her. And he still⁠—

The thought made something hot and sharp twist in my chest.

“You fucked my best friend?”

The words were barely out of my mouth before I shoved open the heavy wooden door of my brother’s homestead. He never bothered locking it—said the shotgun mounted on the wall was all the protection he needed at night.

“What the⁠—”

Colton shot up from the old, worn-out couch, his head nearly grazing the ceiling. He rubbed his eyes repeatedly, squinting as the bright afternoon sun flooded the room.

“You fucked her and then disappeared? Left her like she was just another one of your achievements? Just another notch on your bedpost?”

Anger radiated through me, tightening and squeezing my chest.

I wanted to hit him. To slap the stupid look of confusion off his face.

So, I did.

I pulled my arm back as far as I could. The realization dawned in his eyes a split second before my hand connected with his cheek. I’d never been the violent one—that was always him—but sometimes the King family temper lived in me too.

The pain was sharp when my palm met his face, but the rage running through my blood drowned it out.

Colton stumbled back, cupping his cheek. He raised his other hand in surrender.

“Clarke, stop—Jesus fuck, I forgot how hard you can hit.”

“Answer the fucking question, Colton.”

My hands shook. I needed something to hold. Or throw.

“Was she just another fling until you realized you could use her? What do you want from her?”

“Will you put your hand down if I answer?” He glanced down at his bare legs and boxer briefs. “And I’d like to put some pants on.”