“It gives me the right to remove trash from my home,” Damien replied coolly.
My attention flew between them, panic raising the hairs on my scalp.
“Who do you think you are?” Garrett said, taking a step toward Damien.
Candace shot up from her chair. “Garrett, please—let’s just—”
“Shut up,” he snapped, whipping toward her.
She froze.
“This motherfucker”—he jabbed a finger at Damien, spit flying—”thinks he can talk to me like I’m a piece of shit.”
“That isn’t what he was saying—” I tried, but the look he threw me stopped the words dead.
Damien ceased chewing. Moving.
Garrett’s lip curled.
“And what do you think he’s saying, Emma?” he mocked, face twisting with disgust. “Go on. Enlighten me.”
That’s when Damien finally rose from his chair—slow, deliberate—placing himself squarely between us. “Talk to me, Garrett,” he said, whisper-soft. “Not her.”
Garrett sneered, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake off the shift in power. “Look at you,” he spat, dragging his eyes over Damien in a cheap attempt at dominance. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
Damien didn’t answer. He simply shifted his weight to his toes, every line of his body coiled tight.
“I’m going to repeat this. One. More. Time.” He lifted a finger without breaking eye contact. “Get out. Now.”
Garrett barked a laugh. “Or what? What are you gonna do, Holt? Call the cops?”
That silence—controlled, lethal—made the room feel smaller.
Dread thudded painfully through me. A familiar childhood terror clawed through me—shouting in kitchens, slammed doors, blame tossed like knives. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes before I could stop them. I dabbed at them with the edge of my napkin, hoping no one noticed.
Damien noticed immediately. His head snapped toward me, frustration breaking into concern in the space of a breath—expression tightening, posture recalibrating.
“Always the actress, Emma,” Garrett snarled. “Always have been. Poor Emma this. Poor Emma that. You’re fucking pathetic.”
Damien’s gaze slid back to him in a controlled, glacial turn.
“What?” Garrett laughed, throwing his arms wide. “It’s what we’re all thinking.”
What we’re all thinking.
The same phrase he’d used at the antique store.
Damien caught it, too—his shoulders rolling back, posture settling into something cold and lethal. A man done playing nice.
“Such a good little guard dog.” Garrett’s mouth twisted into something ugly. “Does he bark like one, too?”
I didn’t answer—couldn’t.
“You know what,” he said, tapping a finger to his chin. “Since your pussy couldn’t save Elion, maybe you could try the pound next.”
Candace gasped.
The floor dropped out from under me.
