“Who the fuck are you? This is private property, and I’m calling the police this instant.” My father smirks, pleased that he can still hurt me in front of others, but more on an emotional level that seems to always dig deeper, burning under my skin.
Before I can do anything, Granger lightly clasps my wrist where Father hurt me, absently rubbing back and forth with his thumb on the tender spot. He’s not even looking at me but he’s trying to soothe me, and that means everything to me. He bends down to grab my duffle bag and strides to the front door with me right beside him.
“I’m going to be your worst nightmare from this day forward. You see, I’m a Wilder, and you’ve been warned. Make sure you stay away and have a nice fucking day,” Granger growls in a deadly voice, looking my father right in the eye while he delivers that threat, then he swings the front door wide open.
I swear Father pales a little, but it’s hard to tell in the dark foyer if it’s a trick of the light or real fear. I wonder just who Granger's family is and why my father would be afraid of them. Father looks at me after tearing his gaze away from the man next to my side. He’s seething inside, I can tell by how his cruel eyes darken and the hatred sketched on his face.
“You walk out that door, Kathleen, and you won’t be welcomed back.” His vein pops on his forehead when I start to slowly smile and step onto the porch with Granger glued to my hip. He doesn’t think I’ll actually leave, and I’m about to prove him wrong. I don’t need him to survive.
“Good.” My voice comes out strong when I slam the door with a bang, leaving everything behind, and in this moment, I feel…free.
13
Granger
My chest feels tight, a pain erupting along my heartstrings as I picture all that agony blooming in her wide blue eyes. I think that’s going to haunt me for a long time. We didn't talk the whole way home, and the moment we walked inside my condo, she said thank you in a low whisper without looking at me. Then she locked herself in the spare bedroom and didn’t come out for the rest of the night. I paced and cleaned the kitchen the whole night, not knowing what to even think. By the time I went to bed, I was bone tired and drained, but sleep didn’t come. My gaze was on the ceiling the whole time as I wondered if I should go back to her father’s house and beat the shit out of him. Or should I have gone to Kat and cuddled her, telling her it’s going to be okay? I think she needed her space to work out everything in her head, but I was practically crawling up the walls, knowing she’s been hurt emotionally and physically.
I’m here for you, Princess. I’m going to make sure you are never hurt again.
My own thoughts are a toxic clusterfuck. What the fuck can I do for her? How do I take down her father without ending up in prison? I realized in that moment, while I overheard how her father talked to her, that I never knew what real anger felt like until I saw him lay his hands on her. It took everything I had in me to not charge at him and beat him until he was bloody. Mixed feelings spiral through me—burning rage and yet all the fucking pride in my Princess for standing up to him with courage. She's so strong, graceful, and just fucking perfect, it almost scares me. She's becoming my everything, and I've only known her for a short while. I told myself that I would never tangle myself with another woman, but she's not just any woman…she's my motherfucking Princess.
I rub my hand down my face and sit up in bed with a stretch. I glance at the clock to see it's five AM, and my body wakes up like clockwork, same time everyday. I have to get to hockey practice, and I’m determined to try to fix my team. My yawn stops mid-air as I drag my body out of bed, because the smell of blueberries with something sweet permeates the air. I’m in the kitchen in seconds with my nose guiding me, and I have to keep blinking to make sure I’m seeing things right.
The granite kitchen island is filled with baking supplies from one end to the other and over three dozen blueberry muffins still piping hot. Kat hasn’t noticed me yet, but I sure as hell notice her. How could I not? Never have I fantasized about a woman in my clothing baking in my kitchen, but I am now. Her hair is a wild beautiful disaster in a bun on top of her head with tresses escaping down her swan like neck, and her eyebrows are pinched together in a frown of concentration as she whisks more batter in a bowl. I’d have to be blind to not notice her wearing only my shirt with no bra, since with every movement of the whisk, her breasts jiggle, and I have to adjust my growing hard on in my grey sweats to conceal my desire for her. She has all the right fucking curves, and I want to grip them in my palms and watch her eyes dilate with pleasure. I lean against the doorframe, probably—most definitely being a little creepy watching her, but I can’t stop. She really does capture my attention and holds it without trying. Am I picturing her stripped naked on my counter as I slowly
