He looks older, grayer at the temples, but still carries himself with the aggressive swagger of someone accustomed to intimidating smaller, weaker people. His clothes are nicer—pressed slacks and a button-down instead of stained work clothes. But his eyes are the same.
Cold. Calculating. Assessing threats and opportunities.
As I watch in frozen horror, he smiles—the same cruel expression, the same sinister smile that preceded the worst hours of my childhood, when his anger needed an outlet and I was the most convenient target. Then he raises one hand in a mocking wave.
"Cami!" Lizzie's voice seems distant. Underwater. "Honey, what's wrong?"
I can't answer. Can't breathe. Every suppressed memory crashes back. His painful fists. His threats about what would happen if I told.
"Get Wrath," someone says urgently. “Right fucking now."
But I can't wait for rescue. And I can't stand frozen in dread while my worst nightmare stands fifty feet away, plotting whatever twisted game brought him to this place. On shaking legs, I stumble toward the front door, some desperate part of my brain convinced that I can somehow make this go away. I can keep my new friends safe if I just face the monster head-on. Convince him to leave before he poisons this sanctuary.
"Cami, no!" Lizzie's voice carries panic, but I'm already pushing through the door. Cool evening air slaps my flushed face.
My father's smile widens as I approach. When he speaks, his voice carries that mocking tone that used to reduce me to tears.
"Hello, little girly. Daddy's come to take you home."
Chapter 7
Wrath
I’m deep in discussion with Steel, Diesel, and Tank about negotiations with the Iron Serpents suddenly going sideways. Unexplainably, our potential alliance went cold and even hostile. Nobody understands why.
"Get Wrath! Get him right fucking now!" Trix’s panicked cry rings out like a gunshot.
I'm on my feet already pushing through Steel’s office door before she finishes her sentence.
In the dining room, a broken serving dish is shattered on the floor. Lizzie stands frozen by the long table, her face stricken. Trix white-knuckles a dishrag. But it's the empty space between them where Cami should be that sends icy tendrils crawling up my spine.
"Where is she?" The question carries all my years of honed violence.
"Outside," Lizzie says, her voice shaking. "She saw something through the window and just... I don’t know what happened. She dropped the serving dish and ran out front like she was sleepwalking."
Outside. Alone. After I told her to stay inside where it's safe. After the Iron Serpents were asking questions about her in town, after they suddenly turned hostile toward us, after every sign pointed to danger circling closer.
Through the front window, I see two figures on the sidewalk across the street—Cami's small form facing off against a man who trips my warning switches.
He's maybe fifty-five, average height but carries himself with the aggressive posture of someone used to intimidating people weaker. Pressed clothes that don't quite hide the soft gut of a man who's let himself go, thinning hair slicked back with too much product. But it's his eyes that make my trigger finger itch—cold, cruel, scanning our compound assessingly while talking to my woman.
I push my way through the front door, my boots eating up the distance between us in time to hear, "Daddy's come to take you home.”
His voice carries a mocking affection that makes my vision go red.
This piece of shit is her father.
My jaw locks. Every muscle coils tightly, begging for release, for violence, for the justice she was never given.
I'm through the door and crossing the street in seconds. Her father's expression shifts from confident to alarmed as he takes in my size, the leather cut, and whatever he sees in my face.
"Cami, baby,” I say quietly. "Come here."
She turns at my voice, and the relief that floods her face hits hard. She moves to my side without hesitation. I can feel her trembling, hear the shallow, panicked quality of her breathing.
"Well, well," her father says, recovering his composure with an ease that comes from years of manipulation. “No surprise this is where my daughter ended up. Should have figured she'dfind herself a biker." The way he saysbikermakes it sound like a dirty word.
"Your daughter?" I keep my voice conversational. "Funny. You lost any claim to that title years ago."
