He pulled me inside. Stepping back, he assessed me. “From?”
“Everything.”
Dallas had seven siblings, but I was glad that it was Tristan who opened the door. He was the oldest. He would definitely know what to do.
“Tristan,” a voice called from the kitchen. I realized it was Duke Young. Dallas, Duke, and Dexter were triplets, and I knew Duke well. “Is it the pizza?” Duke walked into the foyer. “What’s going on?” He rushed over to me. “Are you okay, Demi?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Did someone do something to you?” Tristan asked, tilting his head to look at me. He was tall. Tall and fine. I’d daydreamed about him many times since I met him. He touched my cheek where my father had slapped me. “Who hurt you?”
I swallowed. “My father hit me.”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed and his mouth formed a thin line. “Does he hit you often?”
“No,” I whispered. “He just makes me feel like shit every day.”
“Where did you come from?” Duke asked.
“We stopped at the gas station,” I explained. “And I ran.”
Sighing, Tristan said, “he’s going to be looking for you. Most likely, he’ll figure out you ran here.”
I grabbed his hand. “Please don’t tell him I’m here. I can’t go back there.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks and I rushed to wipe them away, but Duke stopped me. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He searched my eyes. “We won’t tell him you’re here.”
“I’m scared,” I admitted. Duke hugged me. He didn’t seem to care that I was muddy and wet, he just held me. From behind me, I heard Tristan talking to his parents about the situation. Eventually, Duke pulled away and I stared at the mud on his white t-shirt. “I’m sorry about your shirt.” I looked down at my bare foot and cursed myself for tracking blood and mud onto the hardwood floor. “And the mess.”
He waved me off. “Don’t worry about it.” He took off his slippers and handed them to me. “We’ll clean it up. Put these on so you don’t stain the carpet upstairs. Dallas has clothes that you can change into.” He held out a hand. “Come on.”
Tristan approached us before Duke could lead me up the stairs. “Mom and Dad told me to keep you here. They’re heading home now. They will handle your father.”
For some reason, that made me cry harder. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“We’ll take care of you,” Tristan said, squeezing my shoulder. “Get cleaned up and I’ll get you something to eat.”
The doorbell rang, and I tensed. “It’s him.”
“It could be the pizza.” Tristan walked to the door and peered through the peephole. His shoulders fell, confirming my initial thought.
“It’s him,” I repeated. “He won’t stop.”
The pounding came next, followed by shouting from the other side of the door. “I know you’re in there!”
Motioning for us to go upstairs, Tristan called, “Who is it?”
“Allan Strong,” my father answered. “Open the door and send my daughter out.”
“Who is your daughter?” Tristan asked.
“You know who my daughter is,” my father yelled. “Demita Hope.”
As Duke led me up the stairs, I glanced back at Tristan. He stood at the door, fists clenched. Ready to fight.My hero. “Is he going to be okay?” I asked Duke.
In my ear, he whispered, “Don’t worry. He’ll handle it.” Once we rounded the corner toward the long hallway, I heard a commotion downstairs as Tristan and my father started arguing. I attempted to run back, but Duke wrapped his arm around my waist to hold me. “Demi, stop. Tristan is fine.”
In my fourteen-year-old mind, I couldn’t reconcile that Tristan would be a formidable match for my father. He was only three years older than me. My father was in his forties and lifted weights every day after his morning three-mile run. “He’s going to get hurt,” I murmured.
