And then she screamed. A raw, desperate sound that tore through the hallway and shattered whatever fragile control I'd been clinging to.
I didn't think.
I ran.
My heartbeat slammed in my ears—thunder drowning out everything else. Ice-cold clarity replaced thought. Replaced hesitation. Replaced every civilized instinct I'd ever pretended to possess.
There was only movement. Only purpose. Only the absolute certainty that whoever was touching her would not walk away whole.
Three strides closed the distance.
Her father turned—too slow, too late, recognition flashing across his face half a second before my shoulder connected with his ribs.
The impact drove him sideways. Hard. His back hit the opposite wall with a satisfying crack that echoed through the corridor.
I didn't stop. Grabbed his collar. Slammed him against concrete again. Once. Twice. His hands came up—defensive, weak, pathetic.
I didn't care.
My forearm pressed against his throat. Not choking. Not yet. Just pinning. Holding him in place while every instinct I possessed screamed to break something vital.
His face was inches from mine. Older than I remembered. Smaller. Less imposing outside the shadows of memory.
But his eyes—his eyes still held that same cold calculation. That same entitled cruelty. The look of a man who'd hurt someone weaker and felt nothing.
"Rhys—" Olivia's voice. Shaking. Behind me.
I didn't turn. Didn't look away from the man struggling weakly against my hold.
"You're going to leave. Now. And you're never coming back." My voice came out quiet. Deadly. The kind of calm that preceded violence.
Her father's mouth twisted. "Or what?"
Wrong answer.
"I will murder you with my bare hands."
The words left my mouth quiet. Factual. A promise, not a threat.
His face paled. Good. He should be scared.
But then something shifted in his expression—desperation twisting into venom. His mouth curled into a sneer, and he started talking. Fast. Ugly.
"You sick fuck," he spat. "You think I don't see what this is? You're old enough to be her father. You're her boss. You've been grooming her since she was a kid, haven't you?"
My forearm stayed pressed against his throat. Steady. Controlled.
He kept going.
"She's twenty. You're what—thirty-five? Forty?" His laugh came out choked, desperate. "You're a predator. Taking advantage of a scared girl who didn't know better. Manipulating her. Using your position?—"
Something dark and honest rose up inside me.
I could deny it. Should deny it. Play the noble protector. Claim it wasn't like that.
But I was done lying.
I leaned closer. Let him see exactly what kind of man I was.
