Chapter 21 Cece
CECE
I launch myself out of Brayden’s bed so fast I nearly face-plant.
I grab the nearest clothing—which happens to be his T-shirt—and yank it over my head while hopping around trying to find my underwear.
My heart is doing its best impression of a trapped bird inside my chest, and honestly?
Same. I, too, would like to fling myself out a window right now.
“I know she’s here.” My father’s voice booms through the apartment, that sermon-projecting thunder he uses to scare teenagers straight. “Her car is outside.”
“With all due respect, Reverend Montgomery,” Brayden replies, sounding infuriatingly calm for a man currently half-naked and arguing with a preacher, “it doesn’t matter if she’s here or not.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“She’s a grown woman.”
I rake my fingers through my hair, instantly regretting it when they snag in a knot the size of a small woodland creature. Fantastic. I look exactly like what he’s terrified to find: his daughter who spent the night doing activities that require strategic hydration and lower back stretches.
“I want to see her. Now.” His tone sharpens as footsteps close in on the bedroom door. It swings open just as I step toward it. My father’s expression hardens, and a flicker of pure disdain crosses his face. “It’s true. You’re staying here with him.”
“Clearly, Dad.”
My father’s gaze drops to my wrists, and his expression shifts from disapproval to something far more severe. His eyes widen as he takes in the purple-blue marks circling my skin, grim and unmistakable.
“What has he done to you?” he demands, stepping closer with his Bible clutched in one hand like a weapon.
“Dad, it's not—”
“Don't defend him,” my father snaps, his face flushing with rage as he turns to Brayden. “You put your hands on my daughter? Is this how you treat women?”
Brayden's entire body goes rigid.
“I would never hurt her,” he says, each word precise and deadly quiet.
“Then explain those,” my father says, pointing at my wrists, his finger shaking with indignation. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? You’ve harmed her.”
I step between them, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. “Brayden didn't do this,” I say, holding up my wrists. “This wasn't him.”
My father scoffs, his disbelief palpable. “Do you expect me to believe you did this to yourself?”
“Do you really think so little of me, Dad, that I would be willing to stay with someone who abuses me? That I am so desperate for a man to love me that I would tolerate him putting his hands on me? To hurt me?”
My father's face changes, the anger momentarily giving way to confusion. He wasn't expecting that response.
“Then who?” he demands, his gaze darting between Brayden and me. “Who did this to you?”
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. “Ethan. He cornered me in the bathroom at Tony's yesterday.”
The color drains from my father's face. “Ethan?”
“Yes, Dad. Your precious ex-son-in-law. He followed me into the women’s bathroom. He grabbed me. Threatened me.”
My father's grip on his Bible tightens. He looks momentarily lost, the righteous fury giving way to something more complicated.
“Had Brayden not been there to stop him, I would have far more to worry about than a few bruises.”
For a long moment, my father is silent, his face an unmoving mask of shock. His eyes move between my bruised wrists and my face, as though he’s struggling to reconcile two utterly different realities.
“That’s… impossible,” he finally says, but there’s no conviction behind the words. “Ethan wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t what, Dad? Wouldn’t hurt me? Wouldn’t try to intimidate me?” The words spill out before I can stop them, years of frustration finally breaking loose. “Or is it just that you don’t want to believe it because then you’d have to admit you were wrong about him? About everything?”
Brayden steps closer, his hand finding the small of my back, A silent show of support that steadies me more than he could know. My father catches the movement, his expression tightening.
“I need to speak with my daughter,” he says to Brayden, his tone cold. “Alone.”
“Not happening,” Brayden replies, calm enough to be unsettling. “Not in my home.”
My father’s face flushes a deep, furious red. “I’m her father!”
“And this is my house,” Brayden snaps. “She’s not going anywhere with you unless she wants to.”
They lock eyes, neither willing to back down, two forces measuring each other in charged silence. The air tightens, electric and volatile, and suddenly I’m acutely aware I’m standing in the middle of a minefield—one wrong step and everything could detonate.
“Dad,” I say, keeping my tone as even as I can, “I’ll talk to you. But I’m not leaving. Brayden stays.”
My father's jaw clenches so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding. He's not used to having his authority challenged, especially not by me.
“Fine,” he says at last, though every syllable makes it clear he means the opposite. He gestures stiffly toward the living room. “Shall we at least sit down and talk as civilized people?”
I nod, mostly because I desperately need this confrontation to happen somewhere other than the bedroom I just slept in with a biker. Standing here in nothing but Brayden’s T-shirt and my underwear, hair a disaster from sleep and sex, is not exactly the footing I’d choose for facing down my father.
“You can take a seat on the couch,” he adds, already turning away.
I watch him leave, shoulders rigid, judgment radiating off him with every step. Brayden’s gaze tracks him until he disappears around the corner, then shifts to me. He doesn’t speak—he doesn’t need to. His eyes ask the question plainly: You holding up?
I nod, though “okay” feels ambitious. I’m upright. I’m breathing. That’s about the extent of it.
“I…need clothes,” I whisper, suddenly aware of just how exposed I am. Vulnerability slips in under my skin, cold and unwelcome.
Brayden closes the bedroom door with quiet finality, shielding us from whatever storm waits on the other side. “You don’t owe him anything. If you want him gone, say the word.”
“I know.”
I move to the dresser where Brayden had stashed my things, pulling out jeans and a bra. He watches, silent, while I dress.
He grabs a pair of jeans for himself, not bothering with a shirt. It’s intentional, I realize—the tattoos on full display. A quiet rebellion. A not-so-subtle message to the man in our living room.
“Just say it,” he says, stepping behind me as I twist my hair into a ponytail. His hands find my shoulders, warm and grounding. “No explanation needed. I’ll take care of it.”
I lean back into him, letting his strength bleed into my bones. “I have to do this.”
“Your call, princess.” He presses a kiss to the crown of my head. “But you’re not doing it alone.”
We walk into the living room together. His hand stays at the small of my back—a quiet claim, a protective promise. My father stands by the window, framed in cold daylight. He turns as we enter.
His eyes hit Brayden’s bare chest, then slide to our bodies—too close, too connected for his comfort. His jaw tightens. That familiar look of disapproval tightens his mouth into a straight, bloodless line.
But I don’t flinch. Not this time.
“I see you've made yourself quite at home,” he says to me.
“I have,” I reply. “Would you like some coffee, Dad? We were just about to make some.”
The ordinary question lands with a thud. My father’s eyebrows rise, the barest shift, revealing his incredulity—as though he’s stunned I’d bother with politeness in a place he’s already condemned as a den of iniquity.
“No, thank you,” he says stiffly. “I’m not here for coffee.”
“Then why did you come?” I ask, sinking onto the couch. Brayden sits beside me, close enough that our thighs touch. A small gesture of solidarity that doesn't go unnoticed by my father.
“Mrs. Holloway called me yesterday evening,” he says, remaining standing. “She said she saw you at Tony's. Said you looked...distressed.” His eyes flick to my wrists again. “She mentioned marks. And him.” He nods to Brayden.
“So you thought barging into his home at an ungodly hour was the best way to approach me about it?”
“I thought—”
“No, Dad, you assumed.”
“Yes,” he forcibly admits. “When she said you were hurt, I was sick with worry.”
“Before this goes any further, I want to make something abundantly clear, Reverend. The last person you need to worry about hurting your daughter is me. I would rather carve out my own heart than ever lay a hand on her or cause her pain,” Brayden interjects.
My father's face shifts at Brayden's words, surprise briefly overtaking his anger. He clearly wasn't expecting such a direct declaration, especially not from the tattooed biker he's already decided is the villain in this story.
“Pretty words,” my father says after a moment, “but actions speak louder.”
“Like showing up unannounced at someone’s home to make accusations?” I can’t keep the edge from my tone. “Or did you mean Ethan’s actions? Because those spoke pretty loudly too.”
Dad’s jaw clenches, his gaze flicking between my face and my wrists. The conflict is plain. The urge to protect his daughter fighting against the possibility that he might’ve been wrong about Ethan.
“I need to understand what happened,” he finally says, his words softer now. “Mrs. Holloway said you looked frightened. That this man—” he gestures at Brayden “—was dragging you out the back door.”
“He wasn’t dragging me anywhere,” I correct him. “He was getting me away from Ethan before things got worse.”
“And what exactly happened with Ethan?” my father asks, his tone tight, carefully measured.