Trigger leaned one shoulder against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world. Like his heart wasn’t a loaded gun.
“Eli Jennings,” he said. “But everyone calls me Trigger.”
“Cute,” Thomas said. “Now step aside. I’m here for my fiancée.”
My stomach lurched.
I moved without thinking, standing behind Trigger but close enough that I could feel the heat of his body.
His presence anchored me.
Trigger didn’t move. “She’s not going anywhere.”
Thomas chuckled softly. “Rylie, tell him.”
My throat closed.
Trigger didn’t look at me. He didn’t need to.
He could feel the way my hands shook.
Thomas’s voice sharpened, just a hair. “Rylie.”
I swallowed hard. “No.”
The word came out small.
But it was mine.
For a second, Thomas’s mask slipped.
His eyes went flat.
Then he smiled again, slow and cruel. “You’re upset. That’s okay. You’re under pressure. We all get emotional.”
Trigger’s jaw flexed.
Thomas continued, louder now, like he was making a case to a jury.
“She’s been overwhelmed lately. She’s been having panic attacks. She forgets appointments. She spirals.” He tilted his head. “She needs stability.”
Rage flared inside me.
I took a step forward, but Trigger’s arm slid back—subtle—blocking me.
Protecting me.
Thomas’s eyes flicked to Trigger’s arm like it offended him.
“Rylie,” Thomas said softly. “Do you want your father to lose his job?”
My breath caught.
Trigger went still in a way I recognized.
That frozen stillness before violence.
I grabbed his shirt, whispering, “Don’t.”
