“No.” Too fast. Too defensive. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what to think!” He’s standing now, hands fisted at his sides. “Because from where I’m standing, my daughter is covered in bruises, living with a man who forced her into marriage, and I’m supposed to believe this is love?”
The words hang between us, ugly and true.
“You’re supposed to trust me.” I keep my voice soft, hurt rather than angry. “You’re supposed to believe that I know my own heart.”
“I promised your mother.” His voice breaks completely now, tears tracking down his face. “When she was dying, I promised her I’d take care of you. Keep you safe. You being here, caught up in this. It means I’ve failed..”
“Dad—”
His hands are shaking. “All I want—is to kill him. To take my daughter and run and never look back. What kind of man does that make me?“
“The kind who loves his daughter.” I temper my voice, keeping it soft, genuine emotion bleeding through the lies. “You haven’t failed me.”
“Haven’t I?” He looks at his hands like they’re covered in blood. “If I’d been stronger, smarter, better?—”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything.” Truth, finally.
“Then let me get you away from here.” He reaches for my hands across the counter. “Please, Saintlyn. Let me fix this. Let me be your father again instead of this... this failure.”
I’m so tempted to say yes, because I want nothing more than to be his little girl again, to stay safe and protected and innocent in our own little bubble. But the truth is, I’m none of those things anymore, and I haven’t been since the night Martin Everett died on our porch.
“There’s nothing to fix.” I squeeze his hands once, then pull away. “I love Calder. I want to be here.”
The lie burns worse when I realize he’s finally starting to believe me. I can tell by the way his face crumples with defeat and grief. He doesn’t want to believe it, but I’ve told him enough times now. Explained it to him. At some point, the lies become reality.
Footsteps sound at the back door.
Calder must be here.
Oh God. I watch as my father’s entire demeanor changes. His whole body goes rigid, as it fills with tension. His eyes find mine first, checking if I’m okay, then swing to the doorway where Calder appears.
I look toward the door as well. Calder’s still in his work clothes. There’s dirt on his jeans and sweat on his face.
“Pastor James.” Calder’s voice is carefully neutral as he walks inside and takes off his cowboy hat. “What brings you here?”
“My daughter. I came to visit her. Can she not have visitors?”
“Of course she can have visitors. The problem is when you aren’t just visiting but trying to offer her an escape that she clearly doesn’t want.”
“Want?” Dad’s laugh is sharp, ugly. “You think she wants any of this? That she wants to be with you?”
“That’s between me and Saint.”
“No.” Dad takes a step toward him, and I see murder in his eyes. “It’s between me and my daughter. You’re just the bastard who took her.”
“Dad, don’t.” I move between them, with my hands up, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Please?—”
“I should kill you.” My father’s voice trembles with barely contained rage. “Right here. Right now. For what you’ve done to her. For the marks on her skin. For destroying everything she was, and could’ve been.”
“I mean, you could certainly try.” Calder doesn’t move or threaten him. He just stands there like a bystander watching my father fall apart.
My father raises his arm, and pulls it back, his hand clenched into a tight fist. There’s no way he would throw a punch with me in the middle of them.
“Saint, move.” Calder’s voice carries a warning. “Let him take his shot if that’s what he needs.”
“No.” I press back against Calder’s chest, facing my father. “No, I won’t watch this happen.”
