My eyes snapped to my abuelita. She was feigning confusion, but there was a flicker of a smile she couldn’t quite hide.
The argument downstairs escalated. My father demanded a warrant; the police demanded his cooperation. Finally, he snarled and grabbed his coat. But then, his eyes shifted. He saw me on the stairs.
“An anonymous tip, huh?” he seethed up at me. “You stupid little girl, what the fuck have you done!”
I flinched, but Tristian was already there, a wall of muscle blocking me from my father’s sight.
“Do the right thing, Samuel. Walk away,” Tristian said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register.
My father’s face contorted with rage. Before the officers behind him could act to restrain him, he let out a roar of anger and lunged up the stairs.
Tristian moved me aside with one hand with ease. Then in a blur of movement, he landed a brutal punch to my father’s chest, followed by a sickening crack as his fist flew across my father’s face.
My father staggered backward, blood spraying.
He would have toppled right down the stairs, probably broken his neck, if not for the officers racing up behind him. They caught him, hauling him to his feet and dragging him back down again. My father screamed as they dragged him back to the door. In that moment, he looked like a deranged animal, wild, bloodied, unrecognizable as the controlled man who had terrorized me my whole life.
I grabbed Tristian’s arm as he glared at the door, standing in front of me in case my father made another break for it. I knew he wanted to go after him again. But he stayed back, his powerful grip on my hip comforting me.
When my father was muscled out of the door, one of the officers glanced up the stairs at us. “I should take you back to the station to charge you for battery and interference,” he said to Tristian, “but since that was technically self-defense, you’re off the hook for now, Locke.” He turned to me. “When you’re ready, we’d like you to come down to the station to talk, Miss Rodriguez.”
I nodded, leaning into Tristian as he rubbed my back. “Wh-when is he going to be released from custody?”
The officer shrugged. “That’s up to the judge.”
I frowned as we fully descended the steps. “I don’t think I understand...”
“No bail,” said my abuelita, her voice casual. At the officer’s nod, she said proudly, “Samuel isn’t the only one with connections.”
Tristian frowned. “Does he know he’s being arrested and that there’s no bail?”
“We’ll just let that be a surprise for him when he reaches the station and starts talking…”
Tipping his hat to my abuelita, I watched him walk out the door, pulling it close behind him. Through the narrow window beside, I could see the squad cars pulled away. My father sat in the back of one of them, his head lowered. I could almost sense the rage coming from him.
“Abuelita...” I whispered.
She pulled me into a hug, her eyes damp. “I said I’d handle it, didn’t I?”
“Why now?”
“Because your father isn’t going to change. He needs a taste of his own medicine.”
I let out a shaky breath, my arms wrapping back around her. It was over. Finally… it was over.
“For now,” my abuelita continued, “I think it’s best you stay with Tristian. This house carries too much pain for you. You need time to heal. And this man—” she looked approvingly at Tristian “—can help you do that.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “What about you?”
My abuelita smiled. “I’ll be okay,mi nieta. Better than okay, even.” She dipped into Spanish, saying the words that let the tears flood from my eyes: “Because now I know you are safe.”
Chapter thirty-three
Tristian
“Darragh is going to kill you after that performance you put on at the last fight.”
Kane leaned against the sofa, his eyes tracking the way I looked down at Ingrid. She was out cold, her head heavy against my thigh, apparently deciding my lap was the safest place in the world for a nap.
