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Because the ugly truth is, I’m not sure whose side he would take.
Shame and fear churn in my gut, souring my earlier triumph.
Sassy sees it in my face and her sneer widens into a smug, terrible grin.
She knows she has me cornered. Knows she’s won this round.
“That’s what I thought,” she coos, “Run along now, little girl. Before you get yourself into any more trouble.”
My father’s gruff voice cuts through the tension like a whip’s crack, making me flinch. “What the fuck is going on here?”
I feel Spark’s arm tighten around my waist reflexively, but I yank myself free of his grip.
Can’t risk Daddy Dearest getting the wrong idea. Or the right one.
“Get your paws off me,” I snap, injecting as much venom into my voice as I can muster.
Spark recoils like I’ve slapped him, confusion and hurt flickering across his face.
I hate myself a little for putting that look there.
But better a bruised ego than a body bag, and my father would be the type to kill him and bury him in the desert.
In this world, perception is everything.
And I can’t afford for anyone, least of all my father, to perceive me as weak. Or worse, as Spark’s property.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry as the desert outside.
This is it. The moment of truth.
If I crack now, if I let my father see even a hint of weakness, it’s all over.
For me, for Spark, for any hope of a future together.
Spark reels his head back in surprise and raises his hands in surrender. “I was only trying to help,” he says, his voice low and soothing.
Like he’s talking to a scared animal instead of a grown-ass woman.
I shoot him a glare, hot and sharp as a knife. “I can handle myself,” I snap, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Spark blinks, his expression flickering with hurt before it smooths out into careful neutrality.
He nods once, a quick jerk of his chin, and takes a step back.
Message received.
I turn on my heel and stalk out of the clubhouse, my head held high and my fists clenched at my sides.
I can feel my father’s eyes boring into my back, Sassy’s mocking laughter nipping at my heels.
But I don’t look back. I can’t.
As soon as I’m outside, I fumble for my phone with shaking hands. “I’m so fucking sorry,” I type, my vision blurring with tears I refuse to let fall. “It was just for show.”
The response comes almost instantly. “It’s okay. I know, Spicy.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my shoulders sagging with relief.
