Page 79 of Slapshot Bride

Something flickers across his face. The polished expression doesn’t crack exactly, but it hardens around the edges.

“I’m not sure you fully understand the situation.”

“I understand it perfectly.”

“Riley and I have a significant history. A relationship that—”

“History.” The word comes out sharp enough to cut him off. “That’s exactly what you are to her. History.”

His jaw tightens.

I take a step toward him, putting myself squarely between him and the house.

“Riley left you. She chose to walk away from you, and now she’s with me. She’s my girlfriend, she sleeps in my bed every fucking night, and this is her home for as long as she wants it to be.”

His expression changes at that.

Good.

“And if you think I’m going to stand here and let you manipulate, threaten, or drag her back into the hell she was brave enough to escape, you’ve seriously misjudged me.”

My voice rises despite every attempt to keep it under control, anger burning hot beneath every word.

“You don’t get to come onto my property looking for my girl. You don’t get to ask to see her. You don’t get to decide what’s best for her anymore.”

I step closer, holding his gaze.

“And I’d use my last fucking breath to make sure you never get the chance to hurt her again.”

Preston looks at me. “I see.” He adjusts his cuffs. His gaze moves past me to Riley, and then back to me again. His smile returns. “There’s no need for a fight. I see she’s doing well, and you have a wonderful career.”

He’s going down that road. Laying on his threat, but I expect nothing less from him.

“Do have a wonderful evening, Mr. Blake.”

He walks back to the car.

The driver has the door open before he reaches it. He gets in. The door closes, and the car pulls away from the curb and down the hill, around the bend, and the taillights disappear.

I stand there for a moment.

Then I turn around.

Riley is still in the doorway. The book is on the floor at her feet. She has not noticed.

Both hands are pressed flat against the frame on either side of her, like the door is holding her upright. She's shaking.

I cross the driveway and come up the steps.

I pick up the book, put it in her hand, and do the one thing I’ve been wanting to do since she appeared at the doorway.

I pick her up.

“He found me,” she says. Her voice is small. The fear is there, and it breaks my heart hearing it.

“No, he found the address.” I walk inside, while she’s still in my arms, legs wrapped around my hips.

I close the door behind us, and the lock catches. The house is quiet.