The moment she has Hope unbuckled and in her arms, sobs begin to wrack Ellie’s small frame.

Pulling off the side of the road, I put the truck in park, walk around, to help Ellie out, but before I get there, she’s out and has the back door open, trying to get Hope from her car seat. “Angel baby.” Ellie pulls off her seatbelt, gets up on her knees, and leans over the backseat. “Mama,” I hear, and I look over my shoulder at Hope, whose eyes are open and locked on her mom in the front seat. “So annoying,” she mumbles under her breath, making me chuckle. “I don’t know what you could possibly think is funny right now,” she huffs, and I see her cross her arms over her chest out of the corner of my eye, the action making me smile. “Ellie,” I say in the same tone, feeling my lips twitch. Pulling my eyes from the asphalt, I look over at her quickly, seeing a sadness in her gaze that makes my fist tighten on the steering wheel.

“What did she say?” Ellie asks quietly from my side as I pull out onto the main road. I want to take a can of gasoline and light her damn trailer on fire. I’m so pissed that I can actually feel my heart pounding in my neck. “Get it from your sister,” I tell her, clicking the alarm for my truck and swinging up inside. “Remember I warned you,” I say, opening the door and stepping down the rickety stairs to the grass. “You sure you want that to be your final answer?” I ask her, turning toward the door. “I don’t know,” she says quietly after a long moment. “I don’t give a fuck if she’s the fucking Pope. I’m not a cop, and that information should lead you into doing the smart thing,” I snarl. You can’t talk to me like this,” she says, putting her hands on her wide hips and looking toward the door.

Until jax by aurora rose reynolds