His face flushes red. I see a flash of the temper that must have terrorized Cami throughout her childhood. "Don't know what kind of sob story she's been feeding you, but the girl's always been a liar. Dramatic, ungrateful, a troublemaker.”
The casual dismissal of her pain, the way he twists her survival into character flaws—my hands curl into fists. But when Cami's hand touches my arm, some of the red haze clears. She's watching. What I do next matters.
"Here's what's going to happen." I take a step closer, watching in satisfaction as he retreats. "You're going back under whatever rock you crawled out from and you're never contacting her again, never coming within five miles of this place, never speaking her name to another living soul."
"Or what?" No real challenge in his voice. Just bluster from a bully who realized he picked the wrong fight.
I smile. "Or I'll introduce you to why they call me Wrath. And the introduction won't be quick, and it won't be pretty.”
His hands clench and unclench. I see the calculation in his eyes, weighing his chances. Whatever he sees convinces him retreat is smarter.
"This ain't over," he growls out, already backing toward a rusted sedan down the block. "She's still my blood, still mine. Can't hide behind bikers forever."
"I'm not yours anymore," Cami says, steel in her voice I've never heard. "Haven't been since the last time you put me in the hospital."
Her father's expression twists in to an ugly rage as he’s humiliated by the dismissal from someone he's used to controlling. For a heartbeat, I think he might come forward andtake a swing at her. If he does, they'll never find enough of him to fill a coffee can.
But survival instinct wins. He spits on the sidewalk then stalks to his car and drives away, leaving rubber on the asphalt.
I watch until his taillights disappear. Only when I'm certain he's gone do I turn to Cami.
Her face is ghost-pale. Chin lifted with false courage. But she won't meet my eyes.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." The lie seems automatic, worn smooth by years of use.
I don't push, just wrap an arm around her shoulders—a slow, telegraphed movement so she can pull away if she chooses to. She doesn't. She leans into me, tremors running through her.
"Let's get you inside."
The walk back feels endless. Cami moves like she's underwater, each step requiring conscious effort. By the time we reach my room, she sinks onto my bed and wraps her arms around herself.
Her eyes have gone distant, seeing something that isn't there. Somewhere behind those green eyes, she's seven again, or twelve, or fifteen.
I settle in the chair across from her. Silence stretches between us.
She stares at her hands. They're shaking. Finally, she speaks.
“When I was seven, I was drinking orange juice. The cheap kind that doesn’t contain real juice.” Her voice is flat, disconnected. “The glass slipped. Doesn't matter if you mean to do it—just matters that it happened.”
I wait.
“I remember the sound of his chair scraping back. I knew before he stood. You learn the sounds. Different footsteps. The slight change in the air—" Her breath hitches. "My arm didn'tbreak right away. He had to twist it. I felt something stretch and pull, but it didn't snap until he shoved me into the counter edge."
She's rubbing her forearm now, unconscious and repetitive.
"At the hospital, they asked three times what happened. Every time, he stared with this look that said he'd kill me if I told the truth, and also that he was disappointed I'd been clumsy enough to get hurt. So I said I fell down the stairs. They wrote it down like they believed me, even though their eyes held skepticism.”
A tear tracks down her cheek. She doesn't wipe it away.
"Nobody helped me. Not then. Not at twelve with black eyes and split lips. Not at fifteen in long sleeves through summer. Not at seventeen when I got brave enough to tell someone and the whole system swallowed up the truth like it never existed."
She looks at me then, devastation in her eyes.
"The truth is he put me in the hospital again two years ago. Broke three ribs and gave me a concussion so bad I couldn't remember my name for six hours. When I woke up and saw him beside my hospital bed crying fake tears about his clumsy daughter, I knew. If I went back to that house, one day he'd kill me and call it an accident."
She's crying now, silent tears while her body stays rigid.
