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I suck in a shaky breath and shake my head. “Not what he’ll think. What he’lldo.”
He stills. I feel him scan me from head to toe, as if he might be able to see the same wounds I carried into the courtroom.
Everyone saw the wounds. But no one said anything. No one acknowledged that they saw what happened to the little girl who couldn’t remember things right, not according to the arresting officer.
Demyen was there. He saw them, too. I’m just pretty sure he forgot.
And now, I’m pretty sure he’s remembering, because his hands drop from my sides and he takes a slow step back. He stares at me.
I’m too scared to look up at him—I don’t want to see the anger etched on his face, even if it is a permanent expression around me—so I find some piece of gravel on the ground to focus on.
He turns. Walks to his side of the car. It’s the slam of the driver’s side door that jolts me from my withdrawal. I fumble for the passenger handle, open it, and slide in.
We sit there in silence, both of us staring at the dashboard.
And then he turns the engine on and throws the car into reverse.
It’s so strange to feel relieved that we’re going home. Which is a word I can’t believe I’m associating with Demyen’s compound. The farther we drive away from the actual prison where his brother is losing his mind, the more I’m feeling like “prison” isn’t the best word to describe what Demyen’s place is to me now.
“Haven” is more accurate. Especially when Martin can’t barge in and threaten to take Willow away.
I just wish the same protection worked against my father.
That’s what Demyen doesn’t understand: he can’t protect me from everyone. Martin is easy. His anger and violence are fueled by his insecurities and inadequacies. He doesn’t think before he lashes out and he doesn’t go through the trouble of planning his sins before he commits them.
But my father is a different story.
Greg Everett, beloved high-ranking detective of the Las Vegas Police Department, is fueled by greed. By power. By his hunger for more influence, more money, more everything. He never makes a move without calculating it first. He never strikes where it could leave evidence leading back to him.
Unless he needs the jury’s sympathy to win his case. Then he plans every sin and commits them with meticulous accuracy so the unknowing but kindhearted people sitting in the stands see an injured little girl and shift their furious gazes to the innocent man in the hot seat.
Martin isn’t a threat, because he can’t just blindly barge into the compound and demand what he wants. Demyen’s men will shoot first, ask questions never.
But my father is the kind of man who no one sees coming. If he knew where I am, and if he knew I challenged his credibility, he wouldn’t barge into the compound for vengeance.
He’d wait in the shadows until I’m all alone.
The thought terrifies me. I look to Demyen to pull myself out of my worst imaginings to remind myself that he’s right here. He’sglaring at the road with one hand on the steering wheel like he’s about to break it, but he’s here. Next to me.
And the fact that it brings me comfort is almost more terrifying than the thought of being murdered.
His phone vibrates on the magnetic mount, and he answers with the car’s internal system. Pavel’s name pops up on the console screen. “Yeah?”
“We’ve got a problem at The Meridian. You’re needed onsite.”
Demyen frowns. “Send Bambi.”
“You’re gonna want to handle this one, boss.”
“Security breach?”
“More like an uninvited guest. And he refuses to leave until you speak with him in person.”
Demyen grumbles something under his breath. “Fine. We’re on our way over.”
It’s another long stretch of silence and one sharp rerouting turn before he says anything to me.
“When we get there, you stay with me. Don’t wander off.”
