16. Ingrid #2
Tristian’s head snapped up, a cold, predatory glare fixing on Kane that made even me want to shrink away. “We’ll talk about this later,” he snapped, effectively killing the conversation.
He wasn’t in for a shift, just to do some busywork at his station. Kane idly chatted between clients, steering clear of the Darragh subject. I kept on hearing his name around them… Who even was he?
Soon, Tristian was finished and he beckoned me outside, bidding Kane a short goodbye. I followed him out, my fingers instinctively brushing the back of his shirt as we walked to the car.
“I’d better get you home, doll. Got things to do.”
Things to do… with Darragh? I didn’t ask; just climbed in.
Once in the Mercedes, the silence was thick, but not uncomfortable. He kept his eyes on the road, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. My thoughts turned back over the altercation in the gym—and what Tristian had revealed to me afterward.
When we pulled onto my street, I braced myself for the sight of my father’s car. But the driveway was empty. A wave of relief washed over me.
“Want me to walk you up?” Tristian asked slowly, gaze fixed on the road ahead.
I gulped softly. “N-no… It’s okay. Thank you for taking me out today.”
He turned in his seat, his dark eyes searching mine with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. “You’d tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn’t you, doll?”
The question felt like a trap. I swallowed the lump in my throat, thinking of the bruises my father hid and the secrets Tristian was digging for. “I would…”
He leaned across the console, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of my head. I stepped out of the car, waving at my front door until his taillights disappeared around the corner.
Inside, the house was blissfully quiet. For the first time in weeks, with my parents both gone, I felt like I could breathe.
I looked at the kitchen and thought of Tristian—of his bruised knuckles and the way he’d talked about his mother. I wanted to do something for him. Something soft.
I pulled flour and sugar from the pantry, the sound of the whisk against the bowl soothing my frayed nerves.
I was just sliding the first tray of chocolate chip cookies into the oven, the kitchen starting to smell like warm vanilla, when the front door slammed.
The sound shattered the peace instantly.
My father stormed into the kitchen, his presence instantly suffocating the air, turning the warm room frigid.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he spat, his gaze snapping back to me. “Baking? Playing house while you ignore your responsibilities?”
“I was just—”
“Your insolence is becoming a problem, Ingrid,” he cut me off, his voice rising. “Do you need a reminder that you are under my command? That your only purpose is to do as I say? You don’t get to have hobbies. You don’t get to have a life I haven’t authorized.”
Then, like a switch had been flipped, his hand flew out, tangling in my hair and yanking my head back with a violent jerk. I gasped, a sob catching in my throat as my scalp throbbed under the pressure.
“Is this why you couldn’t pick up my fucking phone calls?”
My eyes went wide. I—I hadn’t even checked my phone all day. The world outside of Tristian had ceased to exist for a few hours, and now I was paying the price. “I-I’m… I’m sorry, Papa… I-I lost track of time.”
He threw me to the floor with such force that my head bounced off the tile. The room spun, the ceiling tilting at an impossible angle.
“No me gustan las ninas pequenas que no escuchan a su padre,“ he hissed. I don’t like little girls who don’t listen to their father.
He hauled me to my feet by my arm, his grip already leaving bruises in the soft flesh. He pinned me against the wall, his hand sliding up to wrap around my throat. He squeezed, slowly cutting off my air, forcing me to look into his cold, merciless eyes.
“You’re mine. You don’t just get to decide to forget to call me back. I expect to hear from you whenever I contact you.”
I clawed at his arm, my vision blurring into black spots as my lungs screamed for oxygen.
He leaned in closer, his voice a lethal whisper against my ear.
“I can take this little fantasy you live in away from you… Would you like that? For your friends, your abuelita… for Tristian, for your life… to be ripped away from you?”
I coughed gently, trying to squeeze out words as my knees shook. His hand tightened as he shook me, my feet barely touching the ground.
“Answer me,” he seethed, “Ahora, ninita.”
“N-no, Papa…” I wheezed, the words barely a vibration against his palm.
He threw me down again.
I curled into a ball on the floor, gasping for air, the smell of the now-burning cookies in the oven bitter and suffocating.
As though nothing had happened, my father straightened his shirt and checked his watch, the picture of a composed businessman once more.
“I need to get going. Noah will be expecting you to report to him on Tristian’s behavior.”
He walked out without a backward glance. A moment later, I saw my mother walk past the kitchen, heading for the stairs. She didn’t even look at me. She just stepped over the place where I lay broken on the floor, her heels clicking away.
Soon, the front door opened again, and I heard a different set of footsteps. Camila. She dropped her shopping bags, the plastic rustling as she rushed to my side. “Dammit.”
She pulled me up, her eyes flashing with a rare, burning anger that she usually kept hidden. “Fucking worthless prick… taking out all of his anger on a five-foot little girl.”
I looked up at her, my consciousness slipping as the adrenaline began to fade, leaving only the dull, throbbing pain as my head lolled against her shoulder.
“I’m… I’m okay,” I barely wheezed out as we walked. My legs stumbled until she paused, hauling me into her arms, hand under my knees as she muttered a stream of curses.
“You’re not. And don’t think this is an everyday thing. I just can’t stand the fucker,” she muttered, carrying me into my room and laying me on the bed. She was surprisingly gentle, tying my hair back and pulling off my shoes despite her harsh words.
“Thank you…” I whispered, the darkness pressing in. “The cookies…”
“I’ll deal with it,” Camila said, clipped. “Go to sleep.”
I closed my eyes, the shadows of the room finally swallowing the pain and the scent of burnt sugar.