Page 51

CAL

I hear the door.

A creak, sharp and quick. Then silence.

It’s not the sound that makes me move.

It’s what comes after. Stillness. Like the woods themselves are waiting to see what I’ll do.

I round the corner of the cabin, laundry half-folded in my hands—and freeze.

She’s running.

Barefoot. No coat. Her hair still tangled from sleep. No dogs beside her. Nothing but panic and instinct driving her toward the treeline.

“Emilia.”

She flinches. Pauses—just long enough to make my chest clench. Her shoulders tense like she might look back, might change her mind. But she doesn’t turn. But she doesn’t.

She sprints harder.

And I go.

The laundry drops. My boots hit the grass, silent and fast. She’s got a head start, but not much—and I know these woods better than she does. I cut left. Toward the back trail. Fast. Hard. I can hear her breathing now, ragged and shallow, chest heaving like she’s choking on air.

She’s nearly at the edge of the trees when I break through the clearing—dead ahead of her.

Her eyes go wide. Panic. Pain.

She pivots, wild and desperate—but I’m already there. Already reaching.

She twists. Dodges.

“Move,” she gasps, tears already brimming, breaking. “Please—just let me—”

I don’t.

I can’t.

She shoves at my chest, not hard, not enough to hurt—but it lands like a flashback.

Like every moment I couldn’t reach her, couldn’t stop the damage, condensed into this breath.

It’s not the force that breaks me—it’s the fear.

The glimpse of losing her again. And it shatters something primal inside me.

My hand catches her wrist mid-lunge, and I pull her to me like gravity.

Like claiming. My other arm wraps around her waist—tight, unyielding.

Her back hits my chest with force, and I lock my arms like steel across her front, anchoring her to me.

The contrast in our size swallows her, making her feel as small as she is precious.

She releases a wordless shout—not loud, not for help, but from the chaos inside her, and thrashes once.

But I don’t let go. I hold. Not gentle, not this time.

This isn’t for comfort.

This is for containment.

She’s mine.

And she doesn’t run from me.

“Stop,” I bite, my voice right against her ear. Rough. Commanding. “You don’t disappear, little one. Not from me.”

She fights. Harder this time. Her heel scrapes down my shin, but it doesn’t even hurt. Her feet are bare, but it still feels like a sharp line of panic made flesh. Her breath is ragged, torn from her throat like it’s burning. She claws at my arm—not to harm, but to escape, wild and desperate.

Twists in my arms like her skin’s on fire. Like touch itself is betrayal.

I don't give an inch.

I shift my grip higher, one hand over her heart, the other gripping her hip. Possessive. Absolute.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Her breathing shatters. Her body jerks again, in one final surge of panic.

“I have to. He’s selling it. He…” She sobs the words like they’re being torn out of her throat.

And that’s it. That’s the last straw.

I snap.

Not out loud.

Inside.

Like bone under pressure. Like something feral waking up behind my ribs.

My voice drops, low and brutal. “Who, what? ”

She thrashes again, weaker now. Her body’s starting to shake, tremors overtaking the fight. A broken sound slips from her throat, high and small, like something inside her is splintering. I feel it as much as hear it.

The shift. The surrender.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” I breathe, voice fierce but growled. “Whatever it is—whatever’s happening—we face it together now.”

She sobs harder. Her knees start to buckle.

I adjust my grip again, this time dragging her fully off her feet. One arm under her knees, the other tight around her back. Her weight collapses against me like she can’t hold it anymore.

“Enough,” I growl. “You don’t carry this alone. You never carry this alone again.”

She trembles in my arms. Tries to speak. Chokes on it.

“You’re mine,” I breathe. “Which means you don’t run. You come to me. ”

Her fingers curl into my shirt like she’s drowning.

And I carry her back toward the house, jaw clenched tight, fury bleeding through every step.

Because whoever thought they could hurt what’s mine—erase what’s hers—is about to learn exactly how wrong they were.

And I swear, by the time I’m done, Emmy will never doubt again.

Not her worth.

Not her place.

And not who she belongs to.

I feel it when her breath catches. When her whole body tenses, then curls tighter into the crook of my neck like she wants to disappear inside me.

And I know. She remembers. The rules. That she ran, didn’t tell me. Almost tore herself from me in the blur of panic.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice threadbare, broken. Like she thinks those are the words I need.

God, it guts me.

Not the words.

Not the brokenness in them.

But the fact that she thinks I’d want them.

That she thinks this is the moment I’d care about anything but this—her in my arms, safe.

Caught. Kept.

Mine.

I hold her tighter. One arm braced under her knees, the other across her back, hand pressed to her ribs like I could shield her from every sharp thing that ever touched her.

“Shh,” I murmur into her hair, low and firm. “No, baby. Not right now.”

My steps are slow, deliberate, boot by boot up the porch stairs.

The screen door creaks and the dogs stir, watching silently as I bring her inside.

Through the kitchen. Past the firewood. Into the living room where the morning hangs still and quiet.

“I don’t care about rules right now,” I say, voice thick. “I care about you. In my arms. Breathing. That’s it.”

I lower us to the couch. Sit with her still wrapped against me, her legs draped over mine, her chest rising too fast and too shallow.

She’s trembling.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, tucking her tighter beneath my chin. “I’ve got you, baby.”

And she lets out a sound then—a soft, broken thing. Like a knot finally unraveling. She melts into me by degrees. Her fists uncurl where they’ve bunched into my shirt. Her knees stop bracing. Her breath evens, just a little. And when I run my hand down her spine, slow and steady, she sighs.

A tremble, still. But the edge is dulled now. Softened by touch. By warmth. By this.

She doesn’t speak yet. But I don’t ask her to.

Not until I know she’s here. Fully here.

Not until the worst of the panic has passed, and what’s left is just her—small and breath-wrecked and curled in my lap like she doesn’t know where else she belongs.

And then—only then—I speak. Quiet. Gentle. The same way I’d ask her to hand me something sharp.

“Tell me what happened, little one.”

She stiffens. A quiet flinch.

But I stroke her back, feeling the warmth of her skin through the soft flannel. My fingers trail through her hair—fine and silken, slipping over my calloused hands like thread through cloth.

“Let me carry it,” I murmur. “Let me protect you.”

She pulls in a breath. And then nods, silent and fragile. Shifts off my lap, only far enough to reach her phone. Hands it to me without meeting my eyes.

Like it burns.

“There’s a voicemail,” she breathes.

The screen’s still unlocked. I thumb over to the voicemail tab and press play.

And I swear to Christ—

I see red.

“Hope you’re enjoying playing house. If you’re not coming back, I’m getting rid of that damn thing in the garage. Check the classifieds if you don’t believe me.”

Click.

Just like that.

My jaw locks. My hand clenches so tight the phone creaks.

He touched her peace. Threatened what’s hers. Again.

She flinches.

Not because of me. Because of him. Because that voice still echoes in her head.

“Show me,” I say. Voice like gravel..

She hesitates. But then her thumb’s moving, pulling up the ad.

And there it is.

A picture of her bike.

Posted like scrap.

A photo he didn’t take.

A price not worth the metal.

And when I see the pickup address, I go still.

Something sharp and raw ignites in my blood. A deep, consuming heat that scorches everything soft in me.

I force the fire down. But only for her, only in front of her. And only just barely.

She’s curled into the corner of the couch, small and silent, waiting for anger. Rejection.

“Emmy,” I say, rough. “Look at me.”

She does. Tear-rimmed and scared and still trying to apologize with her eyes.

I shake my head.

“I don’t want your sorry,” I say. “I want your peace.”

I lean in, cupping her cheek, thumb brushing along her jaw.

“I’m going to get it back,” I say, low. Steady. Unshakable. “Today. And I’m going to make damn sure he never lays a hand on anything that belongs to you again.”

Her throat moves. Like she wants to speak. Can’t.

I gather her close again. Tuck her into my chest. My arms. My vow.

“Stay right here,” I whisper. “Let me do what needs doing.”

But I don’t let go for a long minute. I breathe her in. Let her breath even against mine. When it does, I ease her upright.

She’s shaking, but not cold. Not just that.

Overrun.

Her eyes flick toward the front door.

“I’m not leaving you alone,” I tell her.

That gets her attention.

Her eyes meet mine. “What do you mean?”

I shift, still holding her close with one arm, and with the other, I pull out my phone.

“He’s already on his way,” I say, tapping out the message. “The man I trust to protect what’s mine when I’m not here. We call him the Watcher.”

Send.

“Someone I don’t know?” she whispers. Her voice is small. Uneasy.

“You won’t see him. You won’t need to. But if anything happens—anything—he’ll be there.”

Her breath wavers. I guide her hand to my chest.

“You’re safe, little one,” I promise. “The dogs stay. The house is locked. And I’ll be back within an hour.”

I stay close, letting the silence stretch. Letting her feel me. Letting her hold onto what’s real.

But when I lean in, voice low and dark in her ear, there’s no gentleness left.

“There’s a line,” I murmur. “And he crossed it. He’s touched too much, taken too much, and now he’s going to learn what happens when something that belongs to me gets threatened.”

I pause, let her breath stutter.

“Because when I get back,” I whisper, each word sharper than the last, “you’re not leaving this house until you know who you belong to. Until you feel it everywhere I put my hands.”

She shivers.

And I leave her with a kiss to the crown of her head.

Because he dared to touch her peace.

And I’m going to tear that mistake straight from his fucking hands.

My truck tires crunch slow across the gravel.

I don’t rush.

Not because I’m calm. Because the fury coiled inside me is too tight, too sharp, to spend on haste.

He’s already out front, arms crossed like he’s got a spine worth showing off. He doesn’t say a word, but I can see it in the way his shoulders pull back—that puffed-up posture that only works on people smaller than him.

I ignore it. Step down from the truck without a word and walk toward the garage, where the bike sits like an afterthought.

But it isn't.

It's Emmy's.

Her first freedom. Her escape. Her damn lifeline.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Smart. If only barely.

I crouch beside the bike. Run my hand down the frame like I’m checking for damage, but I’m not. I’m imagining what it looked like when he dragged it out. When he listed it like it was his to give away.

I hear him approach, but I don’t acknowledge him.

“You here for that thing?”

That thing.

My fists clench so tight my knuckles crack.

But I don’t answer. I don’t even turn.

I check the tires. Feel the chain. Glance toward the for-sale sign leaning just behind it, sticking half out of a tote. Didn’t even bother to plant it in the lawn. Just tossed it nearby like it didn’t matter.

Then I kick up the stand and roll it, past him, to my truck.

Ease it into the bed with the same care I’d use for a weapon, or a wounded body. Strap it down like it’s cargo under fire. Tight. Secure. Unshakable.

The front door creaks. Her mother steps outside, squinting against the sun. She blinks. Sees me. Then the bike.

“What’s going on?”

I don’t turn. Just mutter, “Ask your husband.”

That’s all it takes.

She looks past me.

Sees the sign.

The For Sale print.

And something in her snaps.

“You put it up for sale?” she says, voice cracking wide with disbelief. “You were actually going to sell her bike? The one she bought with her own money—after everything?”

He sputters. Tries to wave it off.

But she’s already crossing the yard. Grabbing his arm, hauling him around.

“No,” she spits. “No, you don’t get to act like that didn’t happen. You don’t get to treat her like that and think I won’t say anything.”

He tries to pull back.

Big mistake.

She lets him have it.

Right there in the open.

“That’s your daughter!”

It echoes through the trees.

And I go still. One hand resting on the bike in the truck bed, the other curled into a fist I don’t lift.

For a second, I don’t see her—I see Emmy. Small. Braced. Waiting to be dismissed.

But her mother doesn’t look away. Not this time. Not when it matters.

And for the first time, something shifts in me. A flicker of respect. Because someone finally stood up for her, loud and raw and without shame.

Because maybe Emmy's not alone in this fight after all.

I stand still, watching the man who made Emmy cry get dragged inside by the woman I never expected to raise her voice.

But she does.

Loud.

Furious.

Defending her daughter in a way that’s years too late—but still not nothing.

And for the first time, I feel a flicker of respect for her. Just a spark.

Because she saw it. Finally.

Because maybe, deep down, she always did.

And now she can’t look away.

I wait until the door slams.

Then I climb into the truck and drive away, slow and certain, Emmy’s freedom in the rearview and her safety up ahead.

Right where I’m going.

Right where she is.

My jaw’s clenched so tight I can taste copper.

And all I can think about—what I need —is her.

In my arms.

Shaking from relief instead of grief.

Looking at her bike the way she used to look at freedom.

And knowing that from this moment forward, anything that touches her, anything that tries to take what’s hers, has to go through me.

No one sells what belongs to her. No one threatens what’s mine.

Not without bleeding for it.

I drive. Slow, determined, and heavy. Toward her.

Where she waits.

Where she belongs.

Where she’s going to learn—

No one takes from Daddy’s girl.

Not ever again.