The man from my nightmares stood on the other side, exactly as I remembered him. Older now, harder around the edges, but the same cold gleam lived in his eyes. The same cruel set to his mouth. The same presence that had filled every room of my childhood with suffocating dread.
My father.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. My fingers went numb against the door.
Behind me, Rhys went absolutely still. Not the stillness of calm—the stillness of a predator locking onto prey. I felt the shift in him, the air thickening with something dark and lethal. His hand settled on my hip, anchoring me, claiming me, warning my father in one silent gesture.
But it was the way Rhys's breathing changed that made my stomach drop.
He knew.
He recognized my father.
Not from now. From then.
Horror crawled up my spine as understanding slammed into me. Rhys had been there. He'd heard the screaming through thin apartment walls all those years ago. He'd been the one who intervened, who'd pulled me out of that blood-spattered living room when I was too small to understand what was happening.
He'd saved me once.
And now he stood behind me again, silent and furious, ready to do it all over.
My father's gaze swept over me—dismissive, cold—then lifted to Rhys. Recognition flickered in his eyes too, sharp and calculating. He looked Rhys up and down slowly, taking in the bare chest, the low-slung sweats, the possessive hand on my hip.
Then he smirked.
It was a cruel, knowing expression, one that said he understood exactly what had happened here tonight. That he saw the marks on my neck, the shirt hanging too large on my frame, the way I stood half-hidden behind a man twice my age.
His mouth twisted into something uglier than a smile as he prepared to speak, and I knew—whatever came next would cut deep.
My father stepped forward, invading the threshold like he had every right. Rhys moved in perfect sync—one smooth, silent step that put him directly between us.
The shift was instant. Absolute.
I couldn't see Rhys's face anymore, only the rigid line of his shoulders, the controlled tension radiating from every muscle. But I felt the danger rolling off him in waves, thick enough to choke on.
"Olivia." My father's voice sliced through the silence, familiar and wrong. "Time to come home where you belong."
Not a request. A command.
The words hit me like a physical blow. My knees went weak, old instincts screaming at me to obey, to apologize, to make myself smaller. But Rhys's hand found mine behind his back—warm, steady, grounding—and the terror fractured.
My father's eyes narrowed, tracking the movement. Then something shifted in his expression. Recognition sharpened into something crueler.
"Wait." He tilted his head, studying Rhys more carefully. "You're that hockey guy. Ackerman."
Rhys said nothing. Didn't move. The silence itself felt violent.
My father's mouth curved into a sneer. "I didn't know Olivia was fucking her boss." He looked past Rhys, trying to catch my eye. "That what you're doing now, sweetheart? Spreading your legs to keep a paycheck?"
Shame burned through me, hot and acidic. I flinched, and Rhys felt it—his grip on my hand tightened briefly before releasing. He stepped forward again, closing the distance between himself and my father until they were inches apart.
The air crackled.
Rhys still hadn't spoken. Hadn't raised his voice. But the quiet fury emanating from him made the hallway feel smaller, colder. My father tried to hold his ground, but I saw the flicker of uncertainty cross his face.
He covered it with another sneer. "You're not going to protect her forever."
Finally, Rhys spoke. His voice came out low, controlled, laced with the kind of calm that preceded violence. "Try me." Two words. Flat. Final.
