Page 34

Thirty-Four

Willow

“Oh, you dumb, dumb bitch.”

I freeze, my fingers clenching on the frame, horror gathering in my belly.

Then I slowly swivel around, ice filling my veins.

He’s there. Dylan. And he doesn’t look pissed off at me for once.

He’s thrilled.

Which is maybe the scariest expression I’ve ever seen on his face.

And I’m abruptly aware of how fucking stupid this is, coming here for a picture.

It’s important, it holds a giant space in my heart…

but I don’t need it. The snapshot of my dad and me is imprinted in my mind.

If Dylan had broken the frame, shredded the photo, I would have still remembered every detail.

His old-fashioned mustache I swear I can remember tickling my hair.

His bright blue eyes that danced with humor and light.

His strong arms holding me tight.

My wide, toothless smile and the pure joy on my face—the evidence of how much I loved and adored him.

My baby fine hair a wild cloud—something I know he did because my mom scoffed at how bad he was at doing my hair…and picking out my clothes.

Because they don’t match, the red-striped overalls he put me in and the bright blue T-shirt.

But I don’t care.

I had him close and loving on me and?—

He was a protector too, looking out for others, sacrificing everything to get people out…until he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t have wanted me to risk everything for a damned photo.

No matter that it’s my only one.

No matter that the frame had sat on his desk at the fire station, clearly important to him too.

He still wouldn’t have wanted me in danger to save this.

And neither did Hudson.

God, I should have waited, been patient, ridden this out—just like we had with my money. I let the lawyers and Atlas do their thing and in the end, it had worked out in my favor.

But no, I had to stupidly rush in and?—

Dylan takes a step toward me and instinctively, I skitter back, my hip banging against the corner of the desk, sending a sharp bolt of pain through my side.

“Stay away from me.” My voice only wobbles the slightest bit.

He smirks as he takes another step toward me and my fingers clench on the frame, but I manage to move more carefully, to sidestep his office chair, to put the length of the desk between us.

I’m nowhere near safe.

But the panic in my belly, coiled tight and ready to strike, stays like that. Not lurching out, not stealing my thoughts and controlling my body.

If I’m calm and smart, maybe I can get a call out to Hudson.

If I’m strong and centered, maybe I can make my way out of the house, can get to my car, can…

“You’ve really fucked up my life,” Dylan says, slowly moving toward me, slowly stalking me around his desk.

I shift my grip on the frame, slip my other hand into my pocket. “The feeling’s mutual,” I say, and this time there isn’t the least bit of waver in my voice.

Something he notices.

Something he doesn’t like given the way his sneer grows on his face.

Fuck sneaky.

I take several steps toward the door and pull out my phone. “Just leave me alone, Dylan. All I wanted was my dad’s picture. If we’re smart, we can handle this quietly and both go on with our own lives.”

“Don’t you understand by now”—he takes several large steps toward me and the distance I’ve been so carefully creating between us evaporates—“that you don’t give me orders?” He bends, putting his face all of an inch away from mine.

So, I can see his temper ratcheting up.

His control fraying.

Can almost feel his fists connecting with my body.

I’ve gotten my cell free, and I point it at my face, unlocking the screen. “I’m not trying to give you orders,” I say, continuing to back up as I jab at the phone icon, pulling up my recent contacts, finger reaching for Hudson’s contact.

I don’t make it that far.

Before the pad of my finger can hit his name, my phone is batted out of my hand. Fingers wrap around my wrist so tightly that I cry out in shock and pain, then again when he roughly twists my arm behind my back and shoves me forward.

Hard.

I hit the built-in bookshelves so hard that I see stars and as my vision clears, I feel something hot sliding down my face.

Blood, I realize.

Dripping from my eye, down my cheek, my jaw…

Dropping onto the pretty, sparkly outfit I was so excited to put on earlier.

Staining it. Ruining it.

And I feel it then…my rage. Filling my belly, pulling apart the panic, piece-by-piece, tearing it to such tiny shreds that I don’t feel it at all.

The only emotion that’s coursing through my veins, burning through my insides…

Is anger.

Red hot anger.

Because he ruined my outfit. And tried to ruin my life. And…hell, but he almost managed to ruin everything.

My rage bursts out of me, and I fight against his hold on my wrist, his body pressing me into those shelves. I buck and yank, shove and grunt…and the asshole doesn’t move an inch. He’s so much bigger than me.

So much stronger.

The panic begins to slide back in and?—

No!

Every part of my body goes tight—my jaw, my abs, my thighs and calves, and…my fingers.

On the frame of my picture.

Without thinking, I lift my free arm, lift that frame, and I slam it back against Dylan’s head.

He shouts in pain, grip on my wrist loosening, and I lurch away from him.

But I barely make it three feet before he’s there again, this time tackling me to the floor.

I go down hard, the picture flying from my grip with a sickening crunch, the air rushing out of my lungs.

Still, even as my head hits the hardwood and stars flash across my vision again, I see that he’s bleeding.

Just above his eyebrow.

Like me.

Good.

Barely does that word cross my mind before it all begins to go wrong.

Or rather, it continues to go wrong.

Because he wraps his hands around my throat and squeezes. Too hard. Too fast. I can’t catch my breath, can’t draw in air, can’t do anything but claw at his arms, pull at his wrists, trying desperately to get free.

And failing.

Black creeps into the edges of my vision.

My lungs scream.

My arms drop to the floor?—

And I feel it.

The metal of the picture frame.

My dad rescuing me a second time.

I scrabble at the frame, fumbling for too long before I manage to grasp it. My arm is heavy and it feels like it weighs a thousand pounds when I lift it.

When I slam it against Dylan’s head.

He grunts but continues squeezing.

Again, princess, I hear Hudson say.

I draw back, swing it forward a second time.

Again, baby girl, I hear my dad say.

Dylan curses, and his grip loosens enough that I draw in much-needed air, giving me the strength to swing a third time.

It collides with his temple in a sickening crunch, and I watch in horror as his eyes roll back in his head before he collapses on top of me.

And that’s when I hear the shouting.