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“She’s not going fucking anywhere with you,” Calax growled. He hugged me closer to his muscular body, arms trembling with tension.
“He’s right,” I said, attempting to appear more confident than I actually was. That was surprisingly difficult given that I was being held like a baby. “I’m not going with you.”
“You are seventeen. You don’t have a choice,” Daddy snapped, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Knowing him, he probably looked up that information before arriving. Heaven only knew that he hadn’t known my actual age before today.
He referred to me as his thirteen-year old daughter last week.
Last fucking week.
Mother ignored the conversation, as was usual with her. Her eyes were fixated on the boys glaring at her from the living room.
My friends were attractive, there was no way to get around that, but did my mom have to stare at them as if she was imagining them naked?
“I’m not going home with you,” I repeated to my dad stubbornly, crossing my arms over my chest. Or, at least, I attempted to. The wrapping and sling around my arm prohibited such movement.
“Do you think you have a fucking choice?”
The men my father came with, his security detail, all stared at me intently. Their hands inched towards the guns I knew were in their holsters. Right thigh. A few centimeters below the waist.
I would know because I had been shot by one of them before.
Not something I would recommend.
Uncrossing my arms and raising them in what I hoped was a placating gesture, I said, “Could we talk about this privately?”
“Fuck no!” That outburst came from Ryder, a flirty musician who I was just becoming friends with. I gave him a reassuring smile, grateful that he was protective of me but knowing I had to do this alone.
His face was grim as he met my stare.
“Drop me off in the kitchen, Callie,” I said, patting the big guy on the shoulder. “I need to have a word with my parents.”
