Olivia
My hand trembled on the doorknob. I felt Rhys behind me—solid, protective, a wall of contained violence—but it didn't stop the ice spreading through my veins.
I opened the door.
And there he was.
The man from my nightmares stood on the other side, exactly as I remembered him. Older now, harder around the edges, but the same cold gleam lived in his eyes. The same cruel set to his mouth. The same presence that had filled every room of my childhood with suffocating dread.
My father.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. My fingers went numb against the door.
Behind me, Rhys went absolutely still. Not the stillness of calm—the stillness of a predator locking onto prey. I felt the shift in him, the air thickening with something dark and lethal. His hand settled on my hip, anchoring me, claiming me, warning my father in one silent gesture.
But it was the way Rhys's breathing changed that made my stomach drop.
He knew.
He recognized my father.
Not from now. From then.
Horror crawled up my spine as understanding slammed into me.
Rhys had been there. He'd heard the screaming through thin apartment walls all those years ago.
He'd been the one who intervened, who'd pulled me out of that blood-spattered living room when I was too small to understand what was happening.
He'd saved me once.
And now he stood behind me again, silent and furious, ready to do it all over.
My father's gaze swept over me—dismissive, cold—then lifted to Rhys. Recognition flickered in his eyes too, sharp and calculating. He looked Rhys up and down slowly, taking in the bare chest, the low-slung sweats, the possessive hand on my hip.
Then he smirked.
It was a cruel, knowing expression, one that said he understood exactly what had happened here tonight. That he saw the marks on my neck, the shirt hanging too large on my frame, the way I stood half-hidden behind a man twice my age.
His mouth twisted into something uglier than a smile as he prepared to speak, and I knew—whatever came next would cut deep.
My father stepped forward, invading the threshold like he had every right. Rhys moved in perfect sync—one smooth, silent step that put him directly between us.
The shift was instant. Absolute.
I couldn't see Rhys's face anymore, only the rigid line of his shoulders, the controlled tension radiating from every muscle. But I felt the danger rolling off him in waves, thick enough to choke on.
"Olivia." My father's voice sliced through the silence, familiar and wrong. "Time to come home where you belong."
Not a request. A command.
The words hit me like a physical blow. My knees went weak, old instincts screaming at me to obey, to apologize, to make myself smaller. But Rhys's hand found mine behind his back—warm, steady, grounding—and the terror fractured.
My father's eyes narrowed, tracking the movement. Then something shifted in his expression. Recognition sharpened into something crueler.
"Wait." He tilted his head, studying Rhys more carefully. "You're that hockey guy. Ackerman."
Rhys said nothing. Didn't move. The silence itself felt violent.
My father's mouth curved into a sneer. "I didn't know Olivia was fucking her boss." He looked past Rhys, trying to catch my eye. "That what you're doing now, sweetheart? Spreading your legs to keep a paycheck?"
Shame burned through me, hot and acidic. I flinched, and Rhys felt it—his grip on my hand tightened briefly before releasing. He stepped forward again, closing the distance between himself and my father until they were inches apart.
The air crackled.
Rhys still hadn't spoken. Hadn't raised his voice. But the quiet fury emanating from him made the hallway feel smaller, colder. My father tried to hold his ground, but I saw the flicker of uncertainty cross his face.
He covered it with another sneer. "You're not going to protect her forever."
Finally, Rhys spoke. His voice came out low, controlled, laced with the kind of calm that preceded violence. "Try me." Two words. Flat. Final.
My father's jaw tightened. For a moment, he looked like he might push back, might try to assert dominance the way he always had. But something in Rhys's expression—something cold and utterly unmoved—made him hesitate.
The silence stretched. Taut. Unbearable.
"Livvy." The nickname slithered off his tongue, sweet and poisonous. "You don't want him to get hurt, do you? Come back home."
The sound of it made my skin crawl. Livvy. He'd always used it when he wanted something, when he was playing nice before the storm. I hated it. Hated the way it made me feel small and compliant and terrified all over again.
My throat closed. I forced the word out, anyway. "No." Barely a whisper.
My father's eyes went cold. "Excuse me?"
Rhys shifted his weight forward, a fractional movement that somehow made him seem larger. More immovable. "You heard her."
My father's attention snapped back to Rhys, and something ugly twisted in his expression. He looked him up and down slowly, deliberately, then let out a harsh laugh.
"You know what's funny?" He leaned against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world. "You were what, twenty when you stepped in back then? Playing hero, breaking down doors." His smile sharpened. "And now look at you. Fucking her."
Heat flooded my face—shame, rage, humiliation mixing into something unbearable.
"A little old for her, don't you think?" My father continued, voice dripping with false concern.
"She's what, twenty-two? Twenty-three? You're pushing forty, and you're taking advantage of the same girl you 'saved.
'" He made air quotes around the word, mocking.
"Preying on her vulnerability. That's what they'll call it, you know. When people find out."
My chest constricted. The words hit exactly where they were meant to—every insecurity, every doubt I'd swallowed down about Rhys and me. Every fear that what we had was wrong, that I was too young, that he was using me.
"Stop it." My voice cracked, but I pushed through. "It's not true."
My father ignored me completely, eyes locked on Rhys. "Yes, it is. And deep down, you know it. You're nothing but a predator who waited until she was legal." He paused, letting the accusation hang. "But I can protect her from men like you. I'm her father. That's my job."
The audacity of it stole my breath. Protect me. From the man standing between me and the only real danger I'd ever faced.
Rhys still hadn't moved. Hadn't flinched. But I felt the rage building in him—controlled, contained, lethal.
My father must have felt it too, because his smile faltered slightly before he forced it back into place.
Rhys's voice dropped to something so quiet I almost didn't hear it.
"If you ever come near her again," he said, each word deliberate, surgical, "I will bury you so deep no one will find what's left."
The temperature in the hallway plummeted. My father's smirk wavered, just for a second, but I saw it—the flash of genuine fear before he covered it with bravado.
"You threatening me?" He tried to laugh, but it came out strained. "You think you scare me, Ackerman? I know guys like you. All talk, no—"
"Try me." Rhys stepped closer, and my father actually stumbled back. "Try stepping inside her home. Try touching her. Try saying one more word to her."
The air felt suffocating. Rhys wasn't yelling, wasn't raising his voice at all, but the controlled violence radiating from him made my knees weak. This wasn't anger. This was something colder. More permanent.
My father opened his mouth, closed it. For the first time since he'd appeared at my door, he looked uncertain. "She's my daughter—"
"She's nothing to you." Rhys cut him off, voice flat and final. "You lost that right the first time you laid hands on her."
My father's face darkened. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I was there." Three words, clipped and brutal. "I remember exactly what I saw. Blood on the walls. Her screaming. Her mother unconscious on the floor." Rhys leaned in, close enough that my father had to crane his neck back. "You hurt her once. You won't get a second chance."
Something in my chest cracked open. He did remember. Every detail. Every moment. And he'd been carrying it all these years, just like I had.
My father's jaw worked silently. He tried to summon that cruel confidence again, tried to pull himself up to his full height, but Rhys didn't budge. Didn't blink.
"This isn't over," my father finally said, voice tight with suppressed rage. "She's still my blood. Still my—"
"She's mine." The words came out low, possessive, absolute. "And if you ever show up here again, if you even think about her, I will make sure you regret every second of the rest of your miserable life."
The silence that followed felt like held breath.
My father's eyes darted between us—calculating, furious, searching for an angle. Finding none. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and for one terrifying moment I thought he might lunge forward.
But Rhys didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just stood there like a wall of immovable force, daring him to try.
My father took a step back instead. Then another.
"This isn't finished," he said, but the conviction had drained from his voice.
Rhys said nothing. Just watched him retreat down the hallway with cold, unblinking focus until he disappeared around the corner.
Only then did Rhys move—pulling me back inside, shutting the door, locking it with shaking hands.
I stood frozen against the door, heart hammering so hard I thought my ribs might crack. The silence pressed down like a physical weight. Rhys hadn't moved since locking the deadbolt—just stood there, back to me, shoulders rigid, hands braced against the doorframe.
"I—I'm sorry."
The words tumbled out before I could stop them, small and broken.
He turned on me so fast I flinched. His eyes blazed with something dark and furious, and for a split second my body remembered fear—old, instinctive, bone-deep.
"Don't." The word came out sharp enough to cut. "This isn't your fault."