21. Chapter 21
Naomi looked up when the back door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the frame.
“Dad’s home?” Jacob’s head snapped up, crayons forgotten, and his body already in motion. Without waiting for an answer, he bolted from the table.
“Jacob!” she called after him, but she could hear his feet pattering off down the hallway.
Mark was right behind him, laughter bubbling out of his chest at the thought of seeing their father. Their excitement was immediate, total, unstoppable.
Naomi groaned silently, pressing her palms against the edge of the table for balance.
Of all the times for Tom Peterson to waltz in unannounced, it had to be now—five minutes before nap time.
The lesson she’d been coaxing them through, the fragile calm she’d fought for all morning, vanished in an instant.
Now, the boys would be too keyed up to sleep, which meant the entire afternoon would collapse into grouchy tantrums and tears.
With a resigned sigh, she rose and followed them, leaving behind the carefully arranged play-education room.
She’d spent weeks making it into a safe space—child-sized tables, colorful mats, bins of building blocks, flashcards, and art supplies.
Every tool she could think of to keep the boys engaged and help undo the damage of their father’s influence. It had slowly been working. Until now.
Tom Peterson stood in the kitchen, his tie askew, hair mussed as though he’d been dragging his hands through it all morning. His mouth was tight, his whole posture wound with irritation.
“Isn’t it time for their nap?” he muttered, his voice flat, without even glancing at his sons who had run to him with wide eyes and eager smiles.
The boys faltered mid-step, their excitement dimming when their father brushed right past them. Jacob’s arms hung awkwardly in the air, half-extended, while Mark’s grin faded into a confused frown.
Naomi’s heart clenched at the sight. “Yes, sir,” she replied evenly, ushering the boys back toward the playroom with a wave of her hand, forcing calm into her tone. “Let’s get settled down, boys.”
It took much longer than usual. Jacob was twitchy, tossing the blanket off, pulling it back on, rolling to one side and then the other. Mark clutched his stuffed lion so tightly Naomi worried the seams would split. His little face was pinched with hurt.
“Is he mad at us?” Mark whispered, his lower lip trembling.
Naomi sat down beside him, smoothing the blanket over both boy and lion.
“No, sweetheart. He probably just had a bad day at work.” The answer didn’t comfort him.
His wide eyes searched her face, looking for something more.
“You remember that day on the playground when you couldn’t reach the monkey bars? ” she asked softly.
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“And you were frustrated because you were too short?”
“Yeah.” His fingers tightened on the lion’s mane.
“Well, your daddy is probably feeling the same way today. Frustrated.”
Mark blinked up at her, thinking it through. “Are you going to lift my daddy up so he can reach the monkey bars too?”
Naomi’s throat tightened, but she forced a smile, brushing his hair back.
“No, honey. Adult problems are a little more complicated. He’s going to need more than me to lift him that high.
” She wiggled the stuffed lion’s paw and tucked it under his chin.
“Go to sleep. I bet your father will be happier later, once he’s had some quiet time. ”
Mark nodded faintly and burrowed deeper under the blanket, his eyes finally sliding closed.
She turned to Jacob. Thankfully, he was already halfway there, his small hand flopping over the edge of the pillow in surrender to his exhaustion.
His growth spurt had hit him hard—every day he seemed a bit taller, leaner, but also crankier, more prone to tears.
These naps were vital for him to regroup and regain some energy.
Naomi sat between their beds, watching their breathing slow, her own pulse finally easing.
Relief flickered through her, but frustration simmered just beneath it.
She couldn’t stop Tom from barging in whenever he pleased, and every time he did, it undid hours of patient work.
He didn’t even see it. And she was certain he wouldn’t care, even if he did.
She stroked Jacob’s hair once and stood, tiptoeing toward the door. “Sleep well, guys,” she whispered.
Jacob gave the tiniest wave without opening his eyes.
Naomi slipped out into the hallway, her jaw clenched tightly. She would hold this fragile progress together if it killed her. But heaven help her, Tom Peterson was making it more difficult every single day.
Naomi pulled the door mostly shut, pausing to glance at the window between the boys’ beds.
The curtain was tugged tight enough to dim the sun, allowing just enough light to keep the room dimly lit without waking them too soon.
Satisfied, she slipped out into the hallway and let her hand rest on the doorknob a moment longer than necessary.
She hated leaving them, even for nap time.
But she needed to tidy the classroom, wipe down the tables, and set up the crafts for the afternoon.
She padded down the stairs, already mentally running through the activities.
She never pushed structured lessons after naps—afternoons were for games that reinforced the morning’s work.
Counting blocks, matching words to pictures, story-time dramatics.
Things that felt like play but subtly taught them discipline and teamwork.
Her feet had barely touched the last step when Tom Peterson’s office door swung open.
He emerged with a heavy crystal glass in one hand and a bottle of bourbon in the other. The sharp tang of bourbon reached her before he spoke.
“Where the hell have you been?” His words slurred at the edges, but the anger in them was sharp, cutting. He lifted the glass and threw back a gulp before she could answer.
Naomi froze, her instincts screaming. She recognized this version of Tom—frazzled, glassy-eyed, riding the thin line between foul mood and outright explosion. She pasted on a polite smile, the one she’d perfected after months of handling him.
“I was putting the boys down for their afternoon nap,” she said evenly, forcing calm into her voice.
He smirked, his lips curling cruelly. “I love that I pay you even when you got nuthin’ to do.”
Naomi swallowed her sigh. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that complaint.
“During nap time, I prepare for their afternoon learning sessions,” she explained carefully, keeping her tone professional.
“There’s never really a spare moment with them.
” She turned toward the hallway. “I’ll just get out of your way. ”
She’d barely taken two steps when a hand like a vise clamped around her arm.
“You’re giving it to that Italian bastard, for free,” Tom hissed, his breath hot and acrid with bourbon.
Naomi jumped, startled. The glass in his hand arced suddenly across the room, shattering against the wall. Crystal shards rained down onto the tile, scattering with sharp, skittering sounds.
Her stomach clenched. Danger.
“I pay you a crap-ton of money every month,” Tom snarled, his eyes crawling down her body. His gaze lingered obscenely on her breasts, the hunger there so blatant it made her skin crawl. “I think I should get my money’s worth.”
“What are you—?” she began, her voice trembling, but the words broke off as he grabbed her shirtfront and ripped.
The cotton tore with a shocking sound, the neckline gaping open to reveal her plain white bra.
He laughed. A wet, ugly sound, half-growl, half-chuckle, bourbon sloshing as he raised the bottle again before tossing it aside. It bounced against the wall and rolled across the floor, liquid trailing in its wake.
Naomi froze, her mind struggling to catch up, to process the horror of what was happening.
But before she could, he was on her. His heavy bulk pressed forward, trapping her against him, his protruding stomach crushing against her ribs. One meaty hand clamped the back of her neck while the other seized her breast and pinched hard, sending a shock of pain through her chest.
Naomi gasped, the sound torn from her throat. Shock turned to terror. She shoved at him, but he was bigger and stronger, his body heavy and unyielding.
“Stop it!” she cried, pushing against his chest, clawing at his hands.
He only laughed louder, delighted with her struggle. “Go ahead. Fight me. You’re just making it hotter for me,” he rasped.
Revulsion washed over her when she felt the press of his erection against her thigh. That’s when the real fear knifed through her chest. She wasn’t just fighting an ugly man’s drunken stupidity—she was in serious danger.
Her breath hitched, and she twisted, trying to get a knee up, but he kept her pinned too close. His laughter filled her ears, thick and vile.
Naomi’s nails were her only weapon. She raked them across his face with every ounce of strength she had.
He roared, his hold breaking as he staggered back, one hand flying to his cheek. Four deep red lines appeared, already dripping blood.
“You bitch!” he bellowed, his face a mask of bloody rage.
Naomi stumbled back, clutching her torn shirt to her chest, her heart pounding so loud she thought the boys upstairs might hear it. She had seconds—maybe less—before he lunged again.
Naomi didn’t wait to see what would come next. She moved on instinct, shoving herself backward, crawling frantically across the cold tile. Her palms scraped against the floor where glass shards had scattered from his earlier tantrum, but she didn’t care. Escape—that was all she could think about.
She’d almost reached the far side of the room, almost convinced herself she was far enough away to stand and run, when a hand clamped around her ankle.
“NO!” she screamed, kicking wildly, her voice cracking with terror.
Tom only laughed, a deep, ugly sound that made her stomach twist. He yanked hard, dragging her back across the floor like she weighed nothing. His bulk loomed over her, and before she could roll away, he dropped down, pressing his weight into her body and pinning her arms above her head.
His bourbon-stained breath hit her face, the fumes making her eyes burn. His eyes were wild and primal, with a predatory gleam as they swept over her nearly bared breasts.
“I like it when they fight,” he leered, his lips curling with grotesque satisfaction. “Turns me on more. So go ahead, my little nanny. Fight all you want. You’re gonna be my afternoon delight.”
The words, the sound of his voice, made her stomach lurch.
He fumbled at her clothes, tugging, ripping, baring more of her skin. The elastic of her leggings burned against her hips as he yanked them downward.
Tears she hadn’t realized were falling burned down her cheeks. Naomi wrenched a hand free, desperation giving her strength. She clawed for his thinning hair, gripping hard and yanking his head back. His snarl reverberated in her ears, animalistic, as his hand shot out, striking her across the face.
The blow exploded white-hot across her cheek. She gasped, stunned, her head spinning. The moment of disorientation cost her dearly.
Her leggings were shoved down to her knees. She froze, panic filling her chest—until something colder, sharper cut through the fear.
Rage.
She refused to let him take anything else from her.
Naomi twisted hard, ignoring the weight pinning her shoulders, and jammed her hand downward. Her fingers locked around the most vulnerable part of him, the part that was hard and excited. With a scream that was part fury, part survival, she squeezed his erection with all her might.
The effect was instant.
Tom’s roar ripped through the house, high-pitched and inhuman. The sound echoed down the hall, loud enough to wake the boys upstairs, but Naomi didn’t care. She dug her nails in, twisting until he recoiled in pain.
She let go, scrambling to her knees, yanking her leggings up with shaking hands. Her chest heaved, her cheek stung, her hair clung to the tears streaking her face. She didn’t care about any of it. Survival was the only thought in her mind.
Tony.
She had to get to Tony. He’d make this stop. He’d hold her, shield her, protect her.
But as she staggered toward the door, Tom’s hand shot out again, grabbing for her ankle.
Fury roared through her. She spun, pulled back her free leg, and drove her heel into his groin with every ounce of strength she had left.
His scream this time was raw agony as his meaty grip fell away.
Naomi bolted.
Her torn shirt gaped open, the fabric brushing against her stinging skin, but she didn’t stop to cover herself. She didn’t stop for her purse, her wallet, her phone—none of it mattered. Her bare feet pounded down the hallway, across the marble entry, out into the bright afternoon sun.
A couple walking their toddler on the opposite sidewalk froze, their faces registering shock as she sprinted past, clothes torn, cheeks wet with tears. Naomi didn’t stop to explain. Didn’t even slow.
Her legs pumped, her lungs burned, her cheek throbbed. But over all of it, her brain kept chanting the same word in rhythm with every step.
Tony. Tony. Tony.
She had to reach him.