CHAPTER 2
TABITHA
Spinning around, I take off for the stairs. Or at least, I try to, but my foot tangles in the bedsheet and instead I go flying forward, landing hard on my hands, pain radiating up my arms. Tears blur my vision as I try to scramble up to my feet, but again I trip over the sheet and fall, this time landing hard on my knee.
“Oh, baby.” To my shock, the man who calls himself Daddy doesn’t sound angry. He sounds almost…worriedas he scoops me up into his arms, cradling me against his chest. “Here, let Daddy see. Did you hurt your hands?”
“No! Let me go!”
“Shh, babygirl. Let Daddy look at your hands.”
My hands reallydohurt, as does my knee, but I don’t want to tell him that. Don’t want to feel this warmth spreading through my body at the slightest hint of concern from a man who seems intent on holding me captive. “No.”
With me still cradled in his arms, he carries me into the largest bathroom I’ve ever seen. Every inch appears to be covered in marble and the tub looks like it could easily hold fiveof me. “Daddy” sits on the edge of the tub and levels a stern look in my direction that has my stomach doing funny little flips.
“Tabitha Grace. Show Daddy your hands right now, or you’re going to have a sore bottom to go with your other ouchies.”
There’s an edge to his voice that taps into the core of who I am. The good girl who never does anything wrong. Never breaks the rules, never talks back, never does anything that could possibly upset anyone. I shouldn’t care what he thinks or feels, but that need to please everyone around me is ingrained so deeply I can’t fight it even now.
Sniffling back tears, I hold out my hands for him to inspect. When he moves my wrist, I wince, and his frown deepens.
“It doesn’t look like you scraped your hands, but I’m going to call your Uncle Ford and ask him what to do about these wrists.”
Uncle who? I don’t have an uncle.
I don’t have anyone.
But I don’t tell Daddy that. It was one thing to feel brave enough to defy him when there was some hope of escape. Now, though, trapped in his arms the way I am, my internal programming takes over and I immediately default to my obedient, nonconfrontational nature.
Shifting me on his lap, Daddy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. A moment later, a face fills the screen. Not quite identical to Daddy’s but close enough for me to guess they must be brothers.
“You better have a damn good reason for calling me at this ungodly hour,” the other man grouses.
“I do.” Daddy shifts the phone so I can see myself in the smaller picture at the top right of the screen. “Ford, meet Tabby. My wife.”
On the screen, the other man’s eyes widen as he lets out a low whistle. “The others are going to be pissed you got married without them.”
Others? How many of themarethere?
“There’s still plenty of time for our traditions. But I need your medical opinion on something.”
Traditions? What traditions? What are theytalkingabout?
Before I can gather the courage to ask any questions, the man on the screen sits up straighter, his expression turning serious. “What’s wrong?”
“She had a fall. A pretty hard one, on the tile floor. And when I try to move her hand, she says it hurts.”
“Can she move it on her own?”
“I don’t know. Tabby, baby, can you show Uncle Ford your hands and move your wrist for him?”
Obediently, I raise my right hand and flex my wrist, though I can’t help but wince as pain flashes through my arm. My left hand isn’t as bad, though it’s still somewhat sore.
“It doesn’t look swollen and she has full range of motion, so it’s likely just a minor sprain. If it continues bothering her, call me back and we can discuss what to do next.”
“Got it. Thanks, Ford.”
“Welcome.” Uncle Ford leans back and looks from side to side, as if checking to make sure he’s alone. “Do you want me to give everyone a heads-up, or…?”
