Rhys #2
I'd seen this man before. Years ago. Through apartment walls. Heard the screams. Heard the crashes. Heard the moments before I'd called it in anonymously because I'd been too young, too uncertain, too afraid of making things worse.
I'd seen him earlier today.
Her father.
The man who'd beaten her. Terrorized her. Nearly killed her.
Standing in my arena. Touching what was mine.
Every molecule of restraint I'd cultivated over thirty-seven years evaporated.
My vision narrowed to a single point—his hand moving toward her shoulder.
Then she saw me.
Her eyes found mine over her father's shoulder. Terror. Relief. Hope. All of it crashing across her expression in the space of a heartbeat.
And then she screamed. A raw, desperate sound that tore through the hallway and shattered whatever fragile control I'd been clinging to.
I didn't think.
I ran.
My heartbeat slammed in my ears—thunder drowning out everything else. Ice-cold clarity replaced thought. Replaced hesitation. Replaced every civilized instinct I'd ever pretended to possess.
There was only movement. Only purpose. Only the absolute certainty that whoever was touching her would not walk away whole.
Three strides closed the distance.
Her father turned—too slow, too late, recognition flashing across his face half a second before my shoulder connected with his ribs.
The impact drove him sideways. Hard. His back hit the opposite wall with a satisfying crack that echoed through the corridor.
I didn't stop. Grabbed his collar. Slammed him against concrete again. Once. Twice. His hands came up—defensive, weak, pathetic.
I didn't care.
My forearm pressed against his throat. Not choking. Not yet. Just pinning. Holding him in place while every instinct I possessed screamed to break something vital.
His face was inches from mine. Older than I remembered. Smaller. Less imposing outside the shadows of memory.
But his eyes—his eyes still held that same cold calculation. That same entitled cruelty. The look of a man who'd hurt someone weaker and felt nothing.
"Rhys—" Olivia's voice. Shaking. Behind me.
I didn't turn. Didn't look away from the man struggling weakly against my hold.
"You're going to leave. Now. And you're never coming back." My voice came out quiet. Deadly. The kind of calm that preceded violence.
Her father's mouth twisted. "Or what?"
Wrong answer.
"I will murder you with my bare hands."
The words left my mouth quiet. Factual. A promise, not a threat.
His face paled. Good. He should be scared.
But then something shifted in his expression—desperation twisting into venom. His mouth curled into a sneer, and he started talking. Fast. Ugly.
"You sick fuck," he spat. "You think I don't see what this is? You're old enough to be her father. You're her boss. You've been grooming her since she was a kid, haven't you?"
My forearm stayed pressed against his throat. Steady. Controlled.
He kept going.
"She's twenty. You're what—thirty-five? Forty?" His laugh came out choked, desperate. "You're a predator. Taking advantage of a scared girl who didn't know better. Manipulating her. Using your position—"
Something dark and honest rose up inside me.
I could deny it. Should deny it. Play the noble protector. Claim it wasn't like that.
But I was done lying.
I leaned closer. Let him see exactly what kind of man I was.
"Yeah." My voice dropped lower. Darker. "I am."
His eyes widened.
I didn't stop.
"Too old for her. Absolutely. Her boss. Technically. A predator?" I smiled—cold, vicious, empty of anything resembling remorse. "If that's what you want to call a man who knows exactly what he wants and takes it."
His breathing went ragged.
"And you know what makes it all worth it?
" I pressed harder against his throat. Not enough to cut off air.
Just enough to make him struggle. "Being so deep inside her tight, wet cunt that she forgets her own name.
Hearing her beg me not to stop. Feeling her come apart on my cock like she was made for it. "
His face went purple. Rage replacing fear. Exactly what I wanted.
"You sick—"
He lunged. Twisted hard. Drove his knee up toward my ribs. I blocked it but the movement threw my balance. He shoved against my chest with both hands—stronger than he looked, desperate and vicious.
I stumbled back half a step.
He came at me. Fists swinging wild. No technique. Just animal fury and years of hurting people weaker than himself.
I caught the first punch. Deflected the second. The third clipped my shoulder—nothing. The fourth—
He grabbed something from his pocket. Small. Metal. Brass knuckles maybe, or something improvised.
The next hit caught me across the jaw.
Pain exploded through my face. Vision blurred. Copper flooded my mouth.
My balance shifted wrong. Back foot slipped. Concrete rushed up to meet my shoulders.
I hit the floor hard.
He was on me immediately. Knee pressing into my chest. Weight pinning me down. That metal object raised high.
It came down. Connected with my cheekbone. Once. Twice. Blood sprayed. My head snapped sideways. Ears ringing. Vision swimming red and black.
He raised his fist again.
Then weight crashed into his back.
A blur of movement. Arms wrapping around his neck from behind. Legs kicking at his ribs.
Olivia.
She'd jumped on him. Clinging to his back like a wild thing. Fingers clawing at his face. Screaming wordlessly. All fear transformed into pure protective fury.
He roared. Twisted. Tried to throw her off.
She held on tighter. Her nails raked across his cheek. Drew blood. He swore viciously and reached back, grabbing for her hair. Got a fistful. Yanked hard.
She cried out—pain and rage—but didn't let go.
The distraction gave me the opening I needed.
I surged up. Drove my shoulder into his gut. Used his imbalance against him. All that weight on me became leverage as I twisted and threw.
He went sideways. Hit the wall. Olivia tumbled free, landing hard on her hip.
I was on my feet before he recovered.
Blood dripped from my split cheek. My jaw throbbed. Vision still slightly blurred. Didn't matter.
I was going to kill him.