AURORA #2
"Who the fuck is this?" His words are slurred. Aggressive. "You got yourself a rich boyfriend now, Aurora? That why you abandoned your family?"
"I didn't abandon anyone." My voice is steadier than I feel. "I went to school. Like you told me to."
"Told you to get a job," he corrects, taking a stumbling step closer. "Not run off to play princess while your brother gets sick and I'm left here with nothing."
"Liam is fine. And you've never contributed anything to his care, so don't—"
"Don't what?" He's right in front of me now. Close enough that I can smell the vodka on his breath, the unwashed scent of someone who's given up on basic hygiene. "Don't remind you that you're a selfish bitch who thinks she's too good for her own family now?"
Evander moves. Stepping between us with controlled precision, his body a physical barrier.
"Back up," he says. His voice is quiet. Calm. Absolutely lethal.
My father laughs. The sound is harsh, mocking. "Oh, he talks. Thought maybe you were just arm candy, pretty boy."
"I said back up."
"Or what?" My father tries to look around Evander to see me. "You gonna protect her? She tell you what a fucking disappointment she is? How her mother died ashamed of her?"
The words are designed to hurt. To cut. To find the old wounds and tear them open.
They work. I feel something crack inside my chest, sharp and immediate.
Evander's entire body goes rigid. "If you say one more word to her—"
"You'll what?" My father is emboldened now, sensing weakness. "Hit me? Go ahead, rich boy. I'll sue your family for everything—"
He doesn't get to finish the sentence.
Because he shoves past Evander, his hand shooting out to grab my arm with bruising force.
"You owe me," he snarls, pulling me closer. His other hand goes to my throat. Not squeezing yet. Just holding. A threat. "All those years I kept a roof over your head, fed you—"
"Let go of me." I try to pull away. His grip tightens.
"Not until you give me what I'm owed. You're at some fancy school now, you must have money—"
His fingers start to close around my throat. Cutting off air. Making black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
And then he's gone.
Ripped away from me with such violence that I stumble backward, catching myself against the cold brick wall.
Evander has my father by the collar. Has him lifted off his feet, slammed against the opposite wall with enough force to crack the brick.
And then he starts hitting him.
Not controlled. Not calculated. Pure, blind rage.
His fist connects with my father's face. Once. Twice. Three times. Blood explodes from my father's nose, spraying across the wet concrete.
My father tries to fight back. Tries to swing. Evander catches his wrist and twists until I hear something crack. My father screams.
Evander doesn't stop.
He drops him to the ground and follows him down, kneeling on his chest, fist rising and falling with mechanical precision.
"You put your hands on her." Evander's voice is unrecognizable. Raw. Feral. "You put your fucking hands on her."
Another punch. My father's head snaps to the side.
"She's mine." Punch. "Mine to protect." Punch. "Mine to keep safe." Punch. "And you—" Another punch that makes my father's entire body go limp. "—you're nothing."
"Evander." My voice comes out hoarse. Damaged from where my father's hand was on my throat. "Evander, stop."
He doesn't hear me. Or doesn't care. Just keeps hitting, his knuckles split and bleeding, his expensive clothes splattered with blood that's not his.
"You're going to kill him!" I push off the wall, stumble forward on shaking legs.
That gets his attention. His fist freezes mid-swing, suspended in the air, trembling with barely controlled violence.
He turns to look at me. And the expression on his face makes my breath catch.
Wild. Unhinged. Barely human.
But underneath that—terror. Pure, absolute terror.
"Did he hurt you?" His voice is shaking. "Tell me if he hurt you."
"I'm fine." I take another step closer. "I'm okay. You can stop now."
He looks down at my father's unconscious form beneath him. Blood pooling on the icy pavement. The bitter wind starting to howl again, skittering white flakes over thickening red lines.
Evander stands slowly. His legs are unsteady, his hands still clenched into fists.
And then he drops to his knees in front of me.
Right there on the iced-over pavement, expensive slacks freezing stiff against the glaze, blood dripping from his knuckles onto the concrete.
His hands come up to my throat. Not rough. Gentle. Shaking as his fingers brush over the skin where my father grabbed me.
"Are you hurt?" he asks again. His voice breaks on the words. "Tell me if he hurt you. Please. Please tell me—"
"I'm okay." I catch his hands in mine. They're cold. Slick with blood and melting frost. "Evander, I'm okay."
He's staring at my throat like he can see damage I can't feel. Like the faint red marks from my father's fingers are fatal wounds.
"I should have moved faster." He's talking to himself now, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Should have stopped him before he touched you. Should have—"
"You did stop him." I tighten my grip on his hands. "You got him off me. I'm fine."
Behind us, the town car driver has gotten out. He's standing a respectful distance away, phone in hand, probably already calling whatever cleanup crew Evander keeps on retainer for situations exactly like this.
My father is still unconscious. Still breathing. Probably going to wake up with a concussion and several broken bones and absolutely no memory of how much worse it could have been if Evander had actually wanted to kill him.
"We need to go," I say quietly. "Before someone calls the police."
Evander doesn't move. Just keeps kneeling there on the freezing pavement, his eyes locked on my throat.
"Evander." I crouch down so we're eye level. "Look at me."
He does. And what I see in his eyes makes something in my chest crack open.
Not violence. Not rage. Fear. Raw, desperate, all-consuming fear.
He was terrified. Still is terrified. Not for himself. For me.