Page 88 of Held-

“And this is my house,” Brayden snaps. “She’s not going anywhere with you unless she wants to.”

They lock eyes, neither willing to back down, two forces measuring each other in charged silence. The air tightens, electric and volatile, and suddenly I’m acutely aware I’m standing in the middle of a minefield—one wrong step and everything could detonate.

“Dad,” I say, keeping my tone as even as I can, “I’ll talk to you. But I’m not leaving. Brayden stays.”

My father's jaw clenches so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding. He's not used to having his authority challenged, especially not by me.

“Fine,” he says at last, though every syllable makes it clear he means the opposite. He gestures stiffly toward the living room. “Shall we at least sit down and talk as civilized people?”

I nod, mostly because I desperately need this confrontation to happensomewhere other than the bedroom I just slept inwith a biker. Standing here in nothing but Brayden’s T-shirt and my underwear, hair a disaster from sleep and sex, is not exactly the footing I’d choose for facing down my father.

“You can take a seat on the couch,” he adds, already turning away.

I watch him leave, shoulders rigid, judgment radiating off him with every step. Brayden’s gaze tracks him until he disappears around the corner, then shifts to me. He doesn’t speak—he doesn’t need to. His eyes ask the question plainly:You holding up?

I nod, though “okay” feels ambitious. I’m upright. I’m breathing. That’s about the extent of it.

“I…need clothes,” I whisper, suddenly aware of just how exposed I am. Vulnerability slips in under my skin, cold and unwelcome.

Brayden closes the bedroom door with quiet finality, shielding us from whatever storm waits on the other side. “You don’t owe him anything. If you want him gone, say the word.”

“I know.”

I move to the dresser where Brayden had stashed my things, pulling out jeans and a bra. He watches, silent, while I dress.

He grabs a pair of jeans for himself, not bothering with a shirt. It’s intentional, I realize—the tattoos on full display. A quiet rebellion. A not-so-subtle message to the man in our living room.

“Just say it,” he says, stepping behind me as I twist my hair into a ponytail. His hands find my shoulders, warm and grounding. “No explanation needed. I’ll take care of it.”

I lean back into him, letting his strength bleed into my bones. “I have to do this.”

“Your call, princess.” He presses a kiss to the crown of my head. “But you’re not doing it alone.”

We walk into the living room together. His hand stays at the small of my back—a quiet claim, a protective promise. My father stands by the window, framed in cold daylight. He turns as we enter.

His eyes hit Brayden’s bare chest, then slide to our bodies—too close, too connected for his comfort. His jaw tightens. That familiar look of disapproval tightens his mouth into a straight, bloodless line.

But I don’t flinch. Not this time.

“I see you've made yourself quite at home,” he says to me.

“I have,” I reply. “Would you like some coffee, Dad? We were just about to make some.”

The ordinary question lands with a thud. My father’s eyebrows rise, the barest shift, revealing his incredulity—as though he’s stunned I’d bother with politeness in a place he’s already condemned as a den of iniquity.

“No, thank you,” he says stiffly. “I’m not here for coffee.”

“Then why did you come?” I ask, sinking onto the couch. Brayden sits beside me, close enough that our thighs touch. A small gesture of solidarity that doesn't go unnoticed by my father.

“Mrs. Holloway called me yesterday evening,” he says, remaining standing. “She said she saw you at Tony's. Said you looked...distressed.” His eyes flick to my wrists again. “She mentioned marks. And him.” He nods to Brayden.

“So you thought barging into his home at an ungodly hour was the best way to approach me about it?”

“I thought?—”

“No, Dad, you assumed.”

“Yes,” he forcibly admits. “When she said you were hurt, I was sick with worry.”