"Try me."
He smooths back toward me. "Knox Turner. Your husband."
"You don't get to say his name." The words come out low and venomous, a register I didn't know I had until this moment. "Not with that mouth. Not as though you have any claim to it."
Interest piques. "Alice mentioned him. She was quite specific."
My brain does what it always does: runs the inventory. He knows Knox's name. Knows Darla's maiden name. He knows about the MC. He knows where I work, where I drink coffee, who I sit with on a Tuesday afternoon. Alice gave him the outline, butthis level of detail means he filled it in himself. I'm cataloging the people I love and calculating which ones he can reach.
He leans closer. I catch his cologne. It's expensive, clean, the scent that used to cling to my clothes after dinners where I smiled until my cheeks hurt. "I get to talk about whatever I want. That's how the world works, sweetheart. You don't change the rules by pretending they don't apply."
"Back up," Candace snaps.
He straightens, pitching his voice for the room. "I'm not here to cause a scene. I simply wanted to see my daughter."
"You've seen her. Now leave."
He finds me again, and the mask slips just long enough for uglier things to surface. Ownership, promise, threat. "Consequences follow people who forget where they came from," he says softly. "You've surrounded yourself with vulnerable things. Husbands. Clubs. Friends." His attention drifts to Darla. "Women who don't understand what they're standing next to."
Darla clamps down hard enough to ache, anchoring me to the chair. The café feels too bright. Too loud. I keep my composure because I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
My eyes do what they always do when I feel cornered. They sweep the room, counting exits, measuring distances, cataloging every body between me and the door. That's when I catch it.
Rider is near the back wall by the pastry case, cap low, body angled toward the door. He's been there the whole time. Eyes on my father with that still, predatory patience the men wear when they're waiting for permission.
Kyle sits two tables away, half-turned, scrolling his phone while watching our reflections in the window. His gaze flicks to me. Quick. Steady.
Knox sent them. They must have tailed us from the clubhouse. The realization lands sharp, and for half a second my chest tightens with something that wants to be anger, the old instinctthat says being watched means being controlled. I look at Rider's steady eyes, Kyle's focus, and my grip on the cup eases. Knox didn't send strangers. He sent men I trust, men who would put themselves between my father and this table without being asked. The instinct wasn't paranoia. It was right.
My father sees them too. He takes their measure. His expression shifts. "So. The motorcycle club has you guarded."
Candace lifts her chin. "She doesn't need guarding. She needs you gone."
His gaze returns to mine. "I'll be in touch. We have things to discuss."
"I don't want to discuss anything with you."
His smile doesn't move. "You don't always get what you want."
Candace closes the distance, so near her shoulder almost brushes his chest, voice low enough for just us. "Walk away before you leave here with fewer teeth."
He catalogues her. His focus shifts past Candace to Rider, who hasn't moved, hasn't blinked, and whose stillness carries the kind of patience that promises violence without advertising it. Harrison's jaw tightens, just once, just enough. He files it. I watch him file it, watch the calculation adjust behind his eyes, the cost-benefit analysis of a man who just learned his leverage has limits.
"Lovely to see you, Sloane," he says to the room, and his voice is still smooth, still polished. But his stride toward the door is faster than it was coming in.
Chapter 38
Sloane
Darla'sfingersarestillon my wrist. Candace is still standing, rigid, watching the door as though she expects him to come back with a smile and a gun. Kyle rises from his table and moves toward us without rushing. Rider shifts closer, casual, quiet.
Candace turns to me, and the second her eyes find my face, the anger sharpens. I watch her sort it, file it, pack it down where it's useful. "Car."
I try to stand.
My legs don't cooperate. The floor feels too far away. My vision narrows at the edges. I hate it. I hate that my body betrays me,that one look from my father can reduce me to something fragile when I'm trying to be stone.
Darla slides her hand up and grips my elbow. "Hey. I've got you."
