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It wasn’t Emma.
My stepdad swayed as if he was on a rocking boat. He’d been drinking, that much was clear from his bloodshot eyes and the stale smell of alcohol that wafted from him. Spotting me, a toothy grin appeared on his face, a sight that sent a chill down my spine. When he’d looked at me like that in the past, he wanted something that usually resulted in me suffering. Like the time he convinced me to give him my weekly pay from my two jobs for an outstanding bill, only for me to discover later it went on his gambling addiction.
“Katerina,” he slurred. “Go get your stuff. You’re coming home.”
I blinked at him, shocked. “Wh-What are you talking about?” I demanded. “You reported me to the police, remember? To take the fall for your damn drugs! And I can’t leave even if I wanted to.”
He hushed me, his lips pursed tight while glancing nervously over my shoulder at Debbie, who was watching us. Then, he tried to adopt a softer tone.
“I’m your father, Kat, and you do as I say.”
“Stepfather,” I corrected him tersely.
Undeterred, he continued, “Sometimes, I get angry, Katerina, and it gets to me. For that, I’m sorry.”
I almost fell over because that was the first time he’d ever apologized to me. So whatever reason he had for coming here, it had to be something severely impacting him. Or he was doing it for the audience only.
“What do you really want?” I asked firmly, not believing for a second it had anything to do with benefiting me.
“For us to be a family again,” he replied, his tone dripping with a false niceness that tightened the dread in my gut.
“When were we a family? You treated me like crap,” I spat, anger swelling within me. It was then that I saw the all-too-familiar shift in his expression. The ugly, true face of his anger, one that I’d come to know all too well since he started dating my mother, and he got worse after her passing. After I lost her, I suffered a grief so intense, I carried it with me every single day. He never once asked me how I was, never acknowledged the loss we both shared. Instead, he drowned himself in alcohol and anger, neglecting me in the process.
“I want nothing to do with you,” I snapped, turning on my heel. Before I could take another step, his hand grabbed my arm, pulling me with a force that sent a jolt of pain up my shoulder. His grip tightened painfully.
Anger surged to the surface. His harsh treatment wasn’t new to me. He’d made me live through it time and time again.
The other girl let out a gasp, crying out for him to stop, but he ignored her pleas. His hand swung out, striking me hard across the face. The strength of the blow sent me staggering backward, ripping free from his grip as the taste of blood filled my mouth.
Furious tears pooled in my eye as my body trembled. I glared at him, my pulse thumping in my head. Before I could react, he shoved me up against the wall, his hand at my throat.
“You called the cops on me, bitch, and now they’re talking about removing my access to Jackie’s wealth, which belongs to me,” he sneered, saying my mom’s name with disdain. “I raised you, so I deserve the money for putting up with your shit,” he spat out.
Tears burned in my eyes, not from fear or the pain that radiated from my cheek and throat, but from the heart-wrenching cruelty of his words. They echoed in my ears, a painful reminder of the home I’d escaped. I couldn’t respond if I wanted to as I clawed at the hand strangling me to get the hell off me.
Suddenly, the pressure against my throat disappeared as my stepdad was ripped away from me.
Father Bridge stood there, heaving for breath, his face dark with fury.
My breath hitched in my throat as my stepdad landed sprawled on the floor, and the protective figure of Father Bridge was standing between us.
I’d never seen the Father like this—a fierce protector, his expression hard and glaring down at my stepdad. Emotions flared inside me that he’d actually stood up for me. Only Emma had ever done that for me in the past, and now, here was Father Bridge doing the same.
“Father,” my stepdad cried out. “Have compassion.”
Father Bridge mustn’t have heard him because he moved like a storm, swift and relentless, lunging at my stepdad. Then he laid into him, punch after punch, which was both shocking and the most beautiful sight in the world.
Each hit he landed was precise, powerful. My stepdad, once the dominating figure in my life, was now at the mercy of Father Bridge. And I loved it. He was groveling on the floor, blood seeping from his nose and mouth, but there was no pity in my soul for him, only satisfaction. Father Bridge snatched him by the throat, lifting him off the floor with an ease that was terrifying.
“No one touches Katerina,” he thundered, his voice echoing through the corridor. “I see you near her again, you’ll beg me to finish you.” His threat gave me goosebumps in the best possible way.
He hurled my stepdad, sending him sprawling outside. Then he slammed the door shut behind him, the sound echoing in the silence of the corridor.
We stood there, caught in stunned silence, as Father Bridge turned to us. His attention swept over us, his voice carrying a stern warning.
“No one will touch any of the girls under our watch.”
The soft clap of hands came from the other girls who must have shown up during the fight, a few batting their eyes at him, but my attention caught on his words. His vow to protectme, to keepmesafe. It was as if he’d drawn a protective circle around me with his words.
