Olivia #2
"He violated a restraining order." I pointed at my father with a shaking hand. "He tracked me down. Cornered me in the hallway. Attacked me when I tried to get away."
My father tried to sit up. Coughed. Wheezed. His voice came out rough and damaged.
"That's—that's not—she attacked me. Look at her hands." He gestured weakly at my bloody knuckles. "She's unstable. Always has been. That man—" He pointed at Rhys. "He assaulted me. Tried to kill me."
The officer near me studied my face. My split lip. The bruise already forming on my cheek. The way I held my injured shoulder.
I met his eyes steady. Didn't look away. "I have a caseworker. Marsha Klein. She can confirm everything. The restraining order. The history. All of it." My throat tightened, but I pushed through. "I came here to get away from him. To be safe. He found me anyway."
"She's lying—"
"Sir, stop talking." The officer nearest my father cut him off. "We'll sort this out at the station."
They pulled my father to his feet. Turned him. Cuffed his wrists behind his back with sharp metallic clicks that echoed through the hallway.
He didn't fight. Didn't resist. Just stared at Rhys with pure, concentrated hatred burning in his eyes. A promise. A threat. A vow that this wasn't finished.
Rhys stared back. Unmoved. Unafraid. Waiting.
They dragged my father toward the exit. His footsteps shuffled against concrete. Fading. Growing distant. Then gone.
The hallway fell silent except for my ragged breathing and the crackle of police radios.
The EMTs arrived with a stretcher and bright assessment eyes that catalogued every visible injury in seconds. The older one, a woman with grey streaks in her ponytail, approached me with practiced gentleness.
"Miss, we should take you to the hospital. Get that shoulder looked at. Make sure there's no concussion."
She reached for my arm. I stepped back instinctively.
"No. I'm fine."
The lie tasted like copper and desperation. My shoulder screamed with every breath. My head throbbed where it had cracked against the wall. The split in my cheek pulsed hot and swollen against my teeth.
But hospitals meant paperwork. Questions. Hours sitting in sterile rooms under fluorescent lights that would make everything hurt worse. Hours of being poked and prodded and treated like something broken that needed fixing.
I couldn't. Not tonight.
The EMT turned to Rhys. "Sir, you should come too. Get checked out. Your knuckles—"
"No." The word came out flat. Final. Discussion closed.
His hands hung at his sides, raw and bloodied from where my father's nails had raked his forearm. His right knuckles were split and swelling. He didn't look at them. Didn't seem to register the damage at all.
The EMT hesitated. Glanced between us. Probably saw two people who clearly needed medical attention refusing it with the same stubborn set to their jaws.
"At least let me clean those wounds. Both of you. Prevent infection."
I wanted to refuse that too. Wanted to leave this hallway and never come back. Wanted to scrub the last twenty minutes from my memory and pretend none of it had happened.
But the blood on my hands was starting to dry. Sticky. Uncomfortable. A physical reminder I couldn't ignore.
I nodded once. Short. Reluctant.
Rhys said nothing. But he didn't walk away when the EMT guided us toward the ambulance parked outside. Didn't pull back when she sat us both on the bumper and broke out her supplies.
The cold sting of antiseptic against my knuckles brought tears I refused to let fall. I focused on breathing. On the concrete beneath my feet. On Rhys's solid presence beside me, close enough our shoulders almost touched.
I wasn't fine.
But I was standing.
The café felt smaller than it had an hour ago.
Emptier. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with a hum I'd never noticed before.
Someone's dropped coffee cup lay shattered near the register—ceramic shards scattered across tile in a starburst pattern of destruction that nobody had bothered cleaning up yet.
My footsteps echoed too loud. Each one sent fresh pain radiating through my shoulder. I pressed my hand against it without thinking, trying to ground the ache into something manageable.
Rhys shut the door behind us. The lock clicked with soft finality.
Silence pressed in from all sides. Heavy. Suffocating. The kind that made my ears ring and my chest tighten.
He crossed to me in three strides. His hand came up slowly—giving me time to pull away if I wanted. I didn't move. Couldn't. Just stood there trembling while his fingers caught my chin with impossible gentleness.
He tilted my face toward the light.
His jaw tightened as he studied the bruise spreading across my cheekbone. The split in my lip. The way my left eye had started to swell at the corner. His dark eyes catalogued every mark with focused intensity that made something in my chest twist painfully.
Then his thumb brushed across my bottom lip.
The touch was feather-light. Careful. Wiping away dried blood with a tenderness that didn't match the violence I'd just watched him unleash.
His hand trembled slightly—barely noticeable except I was close enough to feel it.
Close enough to see the adrenaline draining from his system, leaving exhaustion and something rawer behind.
He didn't look away from my face. Didn't speak. Just kept his hand there, thumb resting against my chin like he needed the contact to confirm I was real. Whole. Still breathing.
"I'll close up."
His voice came out low and rough when he finally turned toward Jenna. Not a question. Not a suggestion. A statement of fact that left no room for argument.
Jenna nodded quickly. Her eyes darted between us—worried, uncertain, too smart not to understand exactly what she was seeing.
"Yeah. Okay." She grabbed her coat from the hook. "I'll just—"
She didn't finish. Just left, footsteps hurrying toward the exit.
Ben had already disappeared. I hadn't even noticed him leave. One second he'd been slumped near the register holding his jaw, the next—gone.
The door swung shut behind Jenna.
We were alone.
Rhys guided me to the counter. His hand settled warm and steady against my lower back—grounding, protective—as I leaned against the stainless steel edge. The metal felt cool through my shirt. Solid. Real.
He moved with quiet efficiency. Found the first aid kit beneath the register. Pulled out antiseptic, cotton pads, medical tape. Arranged everything on the counter like he'd done this before. Like violence and its aftermath were just another routine to follow.
Maybe they were.
The overhead lights hummed too loud in the silence. He reached up and switched them off. Flipped on the small task light instead. Softer. Less harsh against my throbbing head.
"Look at me."
I lifted my chin. Met his eyes in the dimness.
He opened the antiseptic with careful fingers. Dampened a cotton pad. The sharp chemical smell made my nose wrinkle.
"This will sting."
His hand cupped my jaw. Tilted my face toward the light again. The pad touched my split lip, and I hissed, jerking back reflexively.
He steadied me. His thumb stroked once across my cheekbone—gentle, grounding—before he continued cleaning the wound. Each touch deliberate. Reverent. Like I was something precious that might shatter if he pressed too hard.
I watched him work. Watched the furrow between his brows. The tight set of his mouth. The way his hands—those same hands that had wrapped around my father's throat with lethal intent—trembled slightly as they tended my injuries.
I should be scared.
Any rational person would be.
I'd watched him nearly kill someone with his bare hands. Watched the cold calculation in his eyes. The utter absence of hesitation or regret.
But fear didn't come. Only a bone-deep certainty that settled into my chest and refused to leave: Rhys Ackerman would never hurt me. Would die before letting anyone else hurt me. Would burn the whole world down if it meant keeping me safe.
He finished with my lip. Set the bloodied cotton aside. His hands came up to frame my face—so careful, so gentle—thumbs resting against my cheekbones.
"He won't come near you again."
Not a promise this time. Deeper than that. More fundamental.
A vow.
The kind men made once and carried to their graves.
I believed him.