For a single, ugly heartbeat, suspicion twisted through me. What if it was Ingrid feeding my father, telling him about Darragh given that was her job, her assignment? She was myhandlerafter all. Keeping tabs, bailing me out of prison, doing things my father would have called tedious and chastised me for again and again. But the thought left as quick as it came.
The girl kneeling for me minutes ago wasn’t capable of that kind of betrayal.
“I have contacts,”was all he said.“I hear things. I know he’s been around. Tristian. Whatever you do, do not get drawn into working for him again.You know what happened before. He will use you again until there’s nothing left.”
My father wasn’t wrong. And yet, I couldn’t help myself from snapping back, “And you won’t?”
Noah tried again. “I can keep Darragh off your back. Only if you clean your act up. Forget the gym, forget the ink. Come work for me. You know I can keep you safe.”
For a single, fleeting moment, it was tempting to give in. My father was offering me something I needed right now, not for myself but for Ingrid: protection.
Yet even though the little scared boy in me craved it, even craved the love of a father who didn’t just treat his family as pawns in his business, I couldn’t. Noah couldn’t stop Darragh. Whatever protection he was offering came with conditions. More control, more compliance, more of myself handed over until there was nothing left. My mother would be leverage. Ingrid would be leverage. Nothing would change except the man holding the leash.
I would save them from nothing.
“No,” I answered, cold.
“Tristian—”
He began to protest, but I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the rug.
From the corner of my eyes, I could still see Ingrid watching me warily, her expression fragile. “Is everything okay?”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Everything is just fine, baby.” I walked over to her, pulling her into my arms. I lifted her, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around my waist, her arms locking behind my neck. I squeezed her ass, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric.
“Promise?” she whispered, her eyes searching mine for the truth.
“I promise, doll...” I responded. I leaned in, catching her lips in a deep, possessive kiss, swallowing her little moan as she melted against me.
My father wanted control. Darragh wanted blood. Samuel wanted his daughter back in a cage.
But as Ingrid sighed into my mouth, her body pressing to me, the softness of her lips making me hungrier for them, for her… I knew she was worth every war I’d have to fight to keep her.
Chapter twenty-eight
Ingrid
The glow of my laptop screen was the only thing making my small corner of the world feel safe. I leaned into the camera, a wide, genuine smile tugging at my lips as Tristian’s face filled the frame. He was propped up at his station at the tattoo parlor, looking rugged and exhausted in a way that made my stomach flip.
Whatever job my father imagined for me, it wasn’t this. Regular video chats or attending underground fights wasn’t part of the description.And kneeling for Tristian on his apartment floor with his hand in my hair definitely wasn’t.
It was the day after the fight. Last night, Tristian dropped me home. My father had been in, had been in the kitchen in fact when I came through the front door. Our eyes had locked, and I was sure my face had twisted with terror. But then my abuelita stepped through from the lounge, greeted me with a smile while shooting a pointed look at Papa, and she had bidden me upstairs.
I hadn’t crossed paths with him yet. I dreaded the moment I would. For now, though, I was home alone; and so I had called Tristian to show him the contents of the package that had arrived this morning.
“Dollbaby... when you told me you had something important to show me, I wasn’t expecting that important thing to be half a store’s worth of art supplies,” he murmured.
I grinned, tugging at the oversized sleeves of the sweater he’d sent me home in.
“But just look at this stuff!” I said excitedly. “Premium charcoal… these vellum-bound sketchpads are beautiful! And these watercolors—I know I haven’t even tried them yet, but they look so pretty—look at the little blocks! And—hold on a second, it’s around here somewhere—look atthis! These watercolors havesparklesin them! Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”
Tristian smirked. “I see something more beautiful than that most days, doll. She’s on my screen right now.”
My cheeks went red. “Th-thanks.”
I wished I was with him. But Tristian had a shift, and technically I had studies to be carrying on with: the harp for an hour, then two hours of literature…
“Come on then,” he rumbled. “Let me see what else you bought.” He leaned in closer to the camera. The movement pulled his shirt tight, the fabric straining against the heavy muscle of his shoulders and chest. Heat burned under my skin, and lower down, too, a deep yearning that was only growing by the day—and which seemed to ramp up ever higher every time Tristian helped me experience another of my firsts.
