Page 4 of Cinderella and the Daddy

My stomach drops. The anger is still there, but something else flickers across his face. Something that looks almost like... satisfaction?

"You," he says, pointing a finger at me. "Come with me."

The words hit me like a slap to the face. "What? No. Fuck off."

I take a step backward, my heart hammering against my ribs.

His long strides close the distance in three steps. “Now.”

"I said no," I repeat, louder this time. My voice echoes off the garage walls.

I look to Charles, expecting him to step in. To say something. Anything. He's supposed to be my dad, right? Even if he's a shitty one, he's still supposed to protect me from psychotic mobsters.

Charles's face is a study in cowardice, jaw slack, eyes finding everything except me. For years, I've rebuilt transmissions in his shop—years of 'family dinners' where I served but never belonged. Now, in this moment, I see the transaction in his eyes. Whatever debt he owes, I'm the payment. “Charles?” His name tastes like motor oil and betrayal. “Look at me.” But we both know he won't. Can't. The sale is already final.

Drew, still bleeding and clutching his ribs, lets out a wet laugh. "Finally. Someone's taking out the trash."

Before I can process what's happening, Luka's hand clamps around my upper arm. His grip is firm enough to brand but careful enough not to bruise. The restraint is almost worse; it says he could hurt me, but chooses not to. For now. My pulse hammers against his fingers, and I know he feels it. His thumbshifts, the barest stroke against my inner arm, and I hate the electricity that shoots straight to my core.

Damn. He smells good. Woodsy and spicy and so fucking dark.

"Walk. Now."

His voice is deadly quiet, but there's no mistaking it for anything other than a command. He looks at me with the kind of cold certainty that says resistance is futile.

2

CINDY

Ijerk my arm back, but his grip doesn't budge. "Let go of me."

"Walk," he repeats, making me feel like I'm a dog that needs training.

"Fuck you." I dig my heels in, but he's already moving toward the bay door, dragging me along like I weigh nothing. My work boots scrape against concrete as I try to plant myself, but damn, he'smuchstronger. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

He doesn't respond. Just keeps calmly walking while I struggle beside him like a fish on a hook. We reach his Mustang, and it’s even prettier up close. He opens the passenger door with his free hand.

The leather interior is pristine. Black with red stitching. My mechanic's brain catalogues every detail automatically. The original gauges, the Hurst shifter, the original dashboard.

"Get in." His voice is still that same deadly quiet.

"No." But even as I say it, I'm looking past him toward the garage. Charles is standing there, just behind Drew, bothwatching. Not moving. Not protesting. Anna has her phone out like she's recording this for her Instagram story. Drew is holding his ribs, but he's smirking through the blood on his face.

None of them are coming to help me.

"I can put you in the car, or you can get in yourself," Luka says. "Your choice."

I look at his face. It’s the picture of indifference. Like struggling means death, and he couldn't care less. Suddenly I'm tired of fighting a battle I can't win. At least not here, not now.

"Fine." I slide into the passenger seat. "But this is kidnapping, you know that, right?"

He closes the door without answering and walks around to the driver's side. His large body fills the space. He turns the key, and I nearly have an orgasm.

Good god.

It’s cherry. Meaning, it is a sweet engine in great condition.

I want to run my hands over the dash and tell the car she’s a good girl. Even scared shitless, I can't help but appreciate the sound.