It’s a beautiful night outside, cold and clear, the moon huge and bright and round, and Trent is wide awake.
His boys are sleeping peacefully, snuggled up to him. He absentmindedly strokes Pete’s hair. They’d been so quiet when they got back to the room; no tantrums this time, no plate-throwing, not even any tears. Not from either of them. They’d all been full of bluster when they’d finally been dragged out of the ring, blood up, adrenaline pumping, but on the way back to the hotel Pete and Tyler seemed to have…deflated, for want of a better word. Pete had curled up in his seat and retreated into himself, playing with his shoelaces, and Tyler had sat in the passenger seat and stared out of the window at the twilit streets as they slid past. Dinner had been made and eaten in silence, and there had been no fuss when Trent had told them it was time to get ready for bed. Trent didn’t bother worrying too much—he had kind of expected it. The fight had been short, but Christ, it had been brutal.
And oh, he thinks now, smiling bitterly to himself, Walter and his lapdogs are going to pay. It’s not just a matter of pride anymore (although Trent would be lying if he said pride’s not a part of it); if they’re going to keep going after his boys, they’re going to fucking pay.
He slides down under the covers, pulling his boys closer. Tyler shifts slightly in his sleep and nuzzles Trent’s shoulder. Trent smiles affectionately and kisses the crown of his head.
He’s going to make those bastards pay.