How could she …? Why would she …? A few in the crowd laughed. Somewhere behind him, a man whispered, “Who didn’t see that coming?” More laughter.Ivan stared at his hands, but his fingers trembled. He shoved his hands into his pockets and reached for the emotion he knew so well. He opened the gates to his anger and let it run wild.Anger—anger that’d grown so hot it’d boiled over, gone cold, froze through solid. An anger worse than Ivan had ever felt consumed him, absolutely consumed him. It was a winter storm in his mind, icicles in his heart. It was a cold that killed all things until the ground of Ivan’s soul was fallow.All around, the whispers turned to gasps. People talking about him … about them. He wrenched his eyes away from June as she pushed through the crowd and stared at the people come to witness his humiliation. Dared them to stare back. That awful woman from the bank stood close by with old Mary Stewart, the horrible smiles on their thin, feathered lips saying everything their tongues weren’t—every slander about him confirmed. Ivan strode through the crowd, didn’t even notice the person barring his way. Butch.The bastard’s name ripped up his throat.
