Chapter 2

Before I could take another step toward the mysterious man, the shadows around him seemed to come alive.

Four figures in dark clothing emerged from the building's entrance, moving with the fluid precision of predators. They had my father between them—David Silverman, the man who had just thrown me out into the cold, now looking smaller and more pathetic than I'd ever seen him.

"Please," Dad's voice cracked as they dragged him into the dim circle of streetlight. "I just need more time. I can get the money, I swear—"

One of the men backhanded him across the face, the sharp crack echoing off the brick walls. Dad stumbled, blood trickling from his split lip—the same lip I'd felt split under his fist just hours ago.

"You've had time," the man said, his voice flat and emotionless. "Six months of time."

Another blow landed in Dad's stomach, doubling him over. He gasped, clutching his ribs, and something twisted in my chest despite everything he'd done to me. This was still my father. The man who used to read me bedtime stories before Mom died, before the drinking, before everything fell apart.

"Stop!" The word tore from my throat before I could think. I stepped forward, my hands raised. "Please, don't hurt him!"

But before I could take another step, a firm hand closed around my upper arm. The touch was gentle but unmistakably strong, stopping me in my tracks.

"Don't." The voice was deep, cultured, with an edge of authority that made my spine straighten instinctively. "Don't show mercy to someone who has shown you none."

I looked up into the face of the man I'd been drawn to moments before, and my breath caught. Up close, he was even more striking—dark hair with silver at the temples, sharp cheekbones, and eyes so dark they seemed to absorb the streetlight. But it was the way he looked at me that made my heart race, as if he was seeing straight through to my soul.

"You don't understand," I whispered, trying to pull away from his grip. "He's my father."

"I understand perfectly." His thumb brushed against the bruise forming on my cheekbone, and I flinched. "He did this to you tonight, didn't he?"

How could he possibly know that? I opened my mouth to ask, but Dad's voice cut through the night air.

"Angelica!" He was on his knees now, one of the men holding him down while another drew back his fist. "Please, baby girl, help me! I'm sorry about earlier—I was drunk, I didn't mean it!"

The desperation in his voice made my chest ache. This was the same man who had called me worthless, who had stolen my future and thrown me out into the cold. But seeing him like this, broken and bleeding, awakened something in me I couldn't ignore.

"Let me go," I said to the mysterious man, trying again to break free from his hold. "I have to—"

"You have to nothing." His grip tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to keep me in place. "He stole from you. Beat you. Threw you out of your own home. And now you want to save him?"

Each word hit like a physical blow because they were all true. But that didn't make it easier to watch my father's face contort in pain as another punch landed.

"Please!" Dad's voice broke. "Angelica, tell them I'm good for the money! Tell them about your college fund—"

"The college fund he already gambled away," the man beside me said quietly, and I felt the blood drain from my face. How did he know about that?

One of his men looked up from where he was holding Dad down. "Boss? What do you want us to do with him?"

Boss. The word sent a chill down my spine that had nothing to do with the December air.

"Continue," the man said simply. "He needs to understand the consequences of his choices."

"No, wait—" I started to say, but he was already guiding me away from the scene, his hand still firm on my arm.

"Come with me," he said, and it wasn't really a request.

My feet moved almost without my permission, following him toward a sleek black car parked at the curb. Behind us, I could hear the dull sounds of impact, Dad's groans of pain, his increasingly frantic pleas.

"Angelica! Don't leave me! Please, I'm your father!"

The words followed us like ghosts, but the man's grip on my arm never wavered. He opened the passenger door of the car and gestured for me to get in.

"I don't even know who you are," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

For the first time, something that might have been a smile touched the corners of his mouth. "My name is Rowan Anderson. And you're coming with me."

It wasn't a request this time either.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I slid into the leather seat. The car was warm, expensive, everything about it screaming wealth and power. As Rowan walked around to the driver's side, I caught one last glimpse of my father through the rear window.

He was still on his knees, still pleading, but his voice was getting weaker. The men in dark clothing were methodical, professional. This wasn't random violence—this was business.

Rowan slid into the driver's seat and started the engine, the car purring to life with barely a whisper of sound. As we pulled away from the curb, Dad's voice rose to a desperate wail.

"Angelica! Come back! I need you!"

But we were already moving, the streetlights blurring past the windows as we left the scene behind. I pressed my face to the glass, watching until the figures became shadows, until the shadows disappeared entirely.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked, my voice small in the silence of the car.

Rowan's hands were steady on the steering wheel, his profile sharp in the dashboard light. "Somewhere safe."

"Safe from what?"

"From him. From the life he's dragged you into." He glanced at me, and I saw something flicker in those dark eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you, Angelica."

The way he said my name made something flutter in my chest, but fear was still coursing through my veins. "How do you know my name? How do you know about my father, about the money?"

"Because I knew your mother."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stared at his profile, searching for any sign that he was lying, but his expression remained calm, almost gentle.

"My mother died when I was ten," I whispered.

"Erie," he said softly, and the name on his lips sounded like a prayer. "Her name was Erie, and she was... she was everything good in this world."

Tears pricked at my eyes. No one had spoken my mother's name with such reverence since she died. "You knew her?"

"I loved her." The admission was quiet, almost lost in the hum of the engine. "And I've been watching over you ever since she died, making sure you were safe. Making sure he didn't destroy you the way he destroyed her."

My breath caught. "Watching over me?"

"I know about the bruises he's given you over the years. I know about the nights you've gone hungry because he spent the grocery money on alcohol. I know about every cruel word, every raised hand." His knuckles were white on the steering wheel now. "I should have intervened sooner."

The car felt too small suddenly, the air too thin. This stranger—this dangerous, beautiful stranger—had been watching me, protecting me from the shadows. It should have terrified me, but instead, I felt something I hadn't felt in years.

Safety.

"What happens now?" I asked.

Rowan's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, and I saw something dark and possessive flicker in their depths.

"Now," he said quietly, "you come home with me."