"You ruined my life." My voice cracked, but I kept going. "You were going to kill me. That night—the fire alarm—you were going to kill me and you didn't care."
"Olivia—"
"You never cared!" The words ripped out of my throat raw and jagged. "You beat Mom. You beat me. You terrorized us for years and now you want to pretend—" My breath hitched. "You want to pretend you're the victim?"
I hit him again. My vision blurred with tears I refused to let fall. My hands hurt. My whole body hurt. But the rage felt cleaner than fear ever had.
"I was eight years old and you made me afraid to breathe wrong."
His hand shot out. Caught my wrist. Squeezed hard enough to bruise. His hand came out of nowhere. The backhand caught me across the cheek with enough force to snap my head sideways. Vision flashed pure white. Pain exploded across my face—sharp, blinding, familiar in the worst possible way. I stumbled. The world tilted violently. My shoulder hit the wall, and I slid down it, legs buckling.
The metallic taste in my mouth intensified. Fresh blood. New split. Same fear trying to claw its way back into my chest.
"You don't get to talk to me like that." His voice dripped venom. Cold. Controlled. The voice that had narrated every nightmare I'd ever had. The one that had whispered threats in the dark when I was too small to fight back. When all I could do was make myself smaller and wait for it to end.
My ears rang. The hallway spun. I pressed my palm flat against the concrete, tried to push myself up?—
Then Rhys exploded into the hallway like a storm breaking loose.
No warning. No words. Just sudden, terrifying motion.
He didn't speak. He didn't hesitate. One second my father stood over me, triumph starting to curl at the edges of his sneer. The next, Rhys slammed into him with the force of a freight train.
His hand fisted in my father's collar. Drove him backward into the wall hard enough the impact echoed through the concrete. Hard enough I felt the vibration through the floor beneath my hands.
My father's head cracked against the cinder blocks. His eyes went wide—shock, then fear.
Rhys's other hand wrapped around his throat. Lifted. My father's feet left the ground. Toes scraping uselessly at the floor. Hands clawing at Rhys's wrist.
The control in it terrified me more than violence would have. No wild swings. No rage-blind flailing. Just pure, focused intent. Rhys held him there with the same deadly calm he brought to everything—efficient, precise, utterly relentless.
My father's face started turning red. Then purple.
"Rhys—" My voice came out broken. Weak. I wasn't sure if I wanted to stop him or thank him.
Rhys didn't look at me. Didn't acknowledge I'd spoken. His eyes stayed locked on my father's face with an intensity that made my skin prickle. Watching. Waiting. Daring him to struggle.
My father's mouth opened. No sound came out. Just a choked, desperate wheeze.
My father's nails scraped against Rhys's forearm. Frantic. Desperate. Leaving red lines that beaded with blood. His legs kicked uselessly at the air. Feet scrabbling for purchase that didn't exist.
Rhys didn't flinch. His grip didn't loosen. His expression stayed perfectly, horrifyingly calm. No twisted rage. No snarling fury. Just cold, focused certainty. The same look he wore when correcting a player's form on the ice. When analyzing a defensive play. When making a decision that couldn't be unmade. Clinical. Final.
My father's face darkened another shade. His eyes bulged. The choking sounds grew weaker. More desperate. His hands stopped clawing and started slapping weakly at Rhys's arm instead.
And Rhys held him there. Watching him die with the same detached calm most people reserved for checking their watch.
Ice flooded my veins.
He would do it. Right here. Right now. In this hallway where anyone could walk by. Where cameras probably caught every angle. Where his entire life could shatter in the next thirty seconds.
He would kill my father. And he wouldn't regret it. Not afterward. Not when the police came. Not when they took him away in handcuffs. Not when he lost everything he'd built.
The realization crashed through me with absolute clarity: Rhys would trade his freedom for my father's death without hesitation. Would consider it a fair exchange. Would do it and never look back.
Because of me.
"Rhys." My voice cracked. "Please."
