She bristled at my hesitation. “Well, are you going to be true to your word or not?”
My mother would have struck her for such an impertinent question. I didn’t move. “I’m always true to my word. What day would you like to see them?”
“Tomorrow, in the afternoon.”
“Fine, but only for an hour. No more.”
“An hour? That’s not enough time t-to—”
“I never promised you how long they could visit, I just agreed that they could.” I hated the thought of her stepbrother here, speaking to her, thinking he had any sway over her. He didn’t. He never would again.
She stood and smoothed her skirt down with quick, angry movements. “You know what? I was wrong before. You should regret it. You should regret all of it.”
She left, never looking back and taking more of me with her than I should have allowed.
Chapter Sixteen
Stella
I fidgeted with my hair, pulling it to the back and ensuring it covered the tattoo. I didn’t want Dad or Dylan seeing the permanent brand. I wore a simple black sweater and a gray skirt. To their eyes, I would no doubt look the same as I had a month ago. Only I knew that the woman they remembered was long gone.
The front door opened and footsteps approached. I stood, nerves making my movements jerky. I was desperate to see my father, but I worried he would get too worked up. He didn’t need to suffer any more than necessary.
Dad rushed in and embraced me. I didn’t realize my tears were falling until they rolled down to my lips, salty on my tongue.
“Daddy,” was all I could choke out.
Dylan stood a few steps back, bowed up with rage. Vinemont stood behind them, leaning against the wide doorway into the sitting room.
My father held me for the longest time. He stroked my hair and kept saying he was sorry.
I pulled away and looked into his watery blue eyes. “Don’t be sorry. I chose to do this. I would do anything to keep you safe.”
He shook his head, now covered in even more gray than I remembered. “That’s what I’m supposed to do. Not you.”
“We’re going to get you out of here, Stella.” Dylan crushed me in his thick arms, squeezing me to him.
“I will get you back,” he whispered in my ear.
I rested my chin on his shoulder and caught Vinemont staring daggers at Dylan.
Jealous, Vinemont?
I placed a chaste kiss on Dylan’s cheek and glanced at Vinemont. He fisted his hands at his sides, the impeccable suit and tie he wore doing a poor job of hiding the animal underneath.
Dylan set me back and looked me up and down. “Has he hurt you?”
“I-I—”
Dylan whirled and advanced on Vinemont who just stood and smirked. He was taunting Dylan, drawing him in so he could hurt him. I knew the power in Vinemont’s body, the way he could break even a man like Dylan.
“No one has hurt me,” I said. “Please, just, let’s just sit down. We only have an hour. Please.”
He stopped only a few feet from Vinemont, and the men engaged in a testosterone-laden stare down. I went to Dylan and tried to pull him away.
“Come on, Dylan. Sit with me.”
He laid a hand over mine and an arm around my waist. Vinemont crossed his arms over his chest, muscles popping even through his dress shirt.
I led Dylan away before my hour was stolen with pointless violence. I’d already had enough of that for a lifetime.
Dad sank down in a fluffy side chair as Dylan and I sat on the floral sofa. Sun poured into the room, belying the chilly air outside. My father was thinner, though he seemed well put together, his clothes new and pressed. Dylan wore his usual rugby shirt and jeans.
Vinemont didn’t move from the door. I glared up at him, willing him away. He smiled back, daring me to ask him to leave. I knew it was useless. Instead, I put my hand in Dylan’s and laced our fingers together.
Enjoy the show, asshole.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him shift from one foot to the other, tension in his taut muscles. I’d seen them, intimately, closely. I brushed those thoughts away and focused on my father.
“How have you been?”
He looked at the floor before bringing his gaze back to mine. “I know I keep saying it, but I’m sorry. I should have just let him lock me up. I should have… You never should have come here.”
“I don’t want to talk about should haves or could haves. We only have a short time and I want to hear about you. How’s the house? Have you had any more trouble from your old clients? Did any of my paintings sell?”
I forced a smile to my face, encouraging my father to engage with me like we were normal human beings, not as a grieving father and an enslaved daughter.