Page 87 of Held-

“With all due respect, Reverend Montgomery,” Brayden replies, sounding infuriatingly calm for a man currently half-naked and arguing with a preacher, “it doesn’t matter if she’s here or not.”

“She’s my daughter.”

“She’s a grown woman.”

I rake my fingers through my hair, instantly regretting it when they snag in a knot the size of a small woodland creature. Fantastic. I lookexactlylike what he’s terrified to find: his daughter who spent the night doing activities that require strategic hydration and lower back stretches.

“I want to see her. Now.” His tone sharpens as footsteps close in on the bedroom door. It swings open just as I step toward it. My father’s expression hardens, and a flicker of pure disdain crosses his face. “It’s true. You’re staying here with him.”

“Clearly, Dad.”

My father’s gaze drops to my wrists, and his expression shifts from disapproval to something far more severe. His eyes widen as he takes in the purple-blue marks circling my skin, grim and unmistakable.

“What has he done to you?” he demands, stepping closer with his Bible clutched in one hand like a weapon.

“Dad, it's not?—”

“Don't defend him,” my father snaps, his face flushing with rage as he turns to Brayden. “You put your hands on my daughter? Is this how you treat women?”

Brayden's entire body goes rigid.

“I would never hurt her,” he says, each word precise and deadly quiet.

“Then explain those,” my father says, pointing at my wrists, his finger shaking with indignation. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? You’ve harmed her.”

I step between them, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. “Brayden didn't do this,” I say, holding up my wrists. “This wasn't him.”

My father scoffs, his disbelief palpable. “Do you expect me to believe you did this to yourself?”

“Do you really think so little of me, Dad, that I would be willing to stay with someone who abuses me? That I am so desperate for a man to love me that I would tolerate him putting his hands on me? To hurt me?”

My father's face changes, the anger momentarily giving way to confusion. He wasn't expecting that response.

“Then who?” he demands, his gaze darting between Brayden and me. “Who did this to you?”

I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. “Ethan. He cornered me in the bathroom at Tony's yesterday.”

The color drains from my father's face. “Ethan?”

“Yes, Dad. Your precious ex-son-in-law. He followed me into the women’s bathroom. He grabbed me. Threatened me.”

My father's grip on his Bible tightens. He looks momentarily lost, the righteous fury giving way to something more complicated.

“Had Brayden not been there to stop him, I would have far more to worry about than a few bruises.”

For a long moment, my father is silent, his face an unmoving mask of shock. His eyes move between my bruised wrists and my face, as though he’s struggling to reconcile two utterly different realities.

“That’s… impossible,” he finally says, but there’s no conviction behind the words. “Ethan wouldn’t?—”

“Wouldn’t what, Dad? Wouldn’t hurt me? Wouldn’t try to intimidate me?” The words spill out before I can stop them, years of frustration finally breaking loose. “Or is it just that you don’t want to believe it because then you’d have to admit you were wrong about him? About everything?”

Brayden steps closer, his hand finding the small of my back, A silent show of support that steadies me more than he could know. My father catches the movement, his expression tightening.

“I need to speak with my daughter,” he says to Brayden, his tone cold. “Alone.”

“Not happening,” Brayden replies, calm enough to be unsettling. “Not in my home.”

My father’s face flushes a deep, furious red. “I’m her father!”