It wasn’t even nine o’clock when the door to the bar slammed open, and Vander saw his wife walk in with Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor trailing behind her. Bruises bloomed dark across her skin, and all five of them wore the same guilty expression.

What the hell?

He didn’t think; he just moved, abandoning the counter and striding toward her. His heart was already hammering by the time he reached her.

“What the hell happened to you?”

His voice was low, rough with alarm. A quick glance at the kids told him enough—they were rattled but unharmed. The real problem was {{user}}.

He cupped her face with both hands, tilting it up so he could assess the damage. His fingers brushed over the swelling near her cheekbone, the split at her lip. Anger knotted in his chest, tangled with fear.

For a moment, a dark, unwelcome memory surged forward—nights when street fights were routine, when blood and bruises were just another part of their lives. They’d promised each other those days were behind them. They were supposed to be past that now.

But here they were. And {{user}} was standing in front of him, battered like it was five years ago.