Page 48 of Riot

“There’s nothing to know.”

“I disagree.” Another step closer. “You’re interesting, Calvin. More than you realize.”

The fridge handle dug into my back, cold metal pressing through my shirt. Trapped. I was trapped between him and the appliance, and he knew it. The knowledge flickered in those dead eyes like a candle behind murky glass.

“Back up.”

“Or what?” The question came without heat. Genuinely curious. “You’ll call your biker boyfriend? The one who dropped you off an hour ago?”

Ice slid down my throat. “You were watching.”

“Hard not to.” His smile widened. “You weren’t exactly subtle. Straddling him like you couldn’t wait to get your legs around him.”

The words landed like a slap. Heat flooded my face, a mix of embarrassment and rising anger. “That’s none of your business.”

“But it is.” Another step. “You see, your brother and I have been talking. He’s worried about you. Running around with biker trash, letting them put their hands on you.” His gaze dropped to my groin then slowly swept up my body.

I felt like I needed another shower.

“Ramos doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Ramos doesn’t know a lot of things.” Miguel’s voice dropped lower. “But I do. I see things clearly. Like how you spent the night away. What would your father think? You could do so much better.”

The mention of my father hit like a punch to the sternum. My vision blurred at the edges. “Shut up.”

“Had plans for you. Expectations.” He was closer now. Close enough that I could smell the cigarettes on his breath, the stale sweat beneath his cologne. “And you threw it all away for some animal who couldn’t keep his hands off of you.”

My mind went blank. Completely, terrifyingly blank. The words were there, somewhere, but I couldn’t reach them. Couldn’t form a response. Couldn’t do anything except stand there while my heart tried to crack my ribs.

Trembling started in my hands and spread outward. My breathing went shallow and fast. The edges of my vision darkened, tunneling until all I could see was Miguel’s face and those empty, empty eyes.

“Look at you.” His voice dripped with satisfaction. “So scared. So fragile.” His hand reached toward my face. “I promised Ramos I would protect you when he went to prison. I watched over you for so many years. Got to know you, your habits, your likes, your terrible taste in friends.”

Years. He’d said years.

Moving on instinct, I ducked under his arm and bolted for the back door. My sneakers slipped on the linoleum, almost making me crash into the table. The door was ten feet away. Eight. Five.

Miguel cut me off. One moment he was behind me. The next, his hand clamped around my wrist with a grip that ground tendon against bone. Bright and electric pain shot up my arm. I screamed, trying to punch him with my free hand. I kicked, twisted, and yanked but couldn’t get free.

“Leaving so soon?” His voice stayed soft. Pleasant. Like he was acting perfectly normal in whatever hellscape his broken mind lived in. “We were just starting to connect.”

“I’d rather connect your face against the counter.” Yanking against his hold, I kept trying to break free. “Let go of me, you crazy son of a bitch!”

“Or what?” He pulled me closer, twisting my arm behind my back until I cried out in pain. “You’ll scream? Go ahead, Calvin. Scream. No one is home. Your brother’s out job hunting. Your mother’s at work.” He looked down at me with smug satisfaction. “It’s just you and me. Like it’s always been.”

My free hand swung toward his face. He caught that wrist too, trapping both arms with humiliating ease, then yanked me flush against his chest. The difference in strength was staggering. Miguel wasn’t built like Riot, all obvious muscle and threatening bulk. He was leaner, more compact, but his grip was steel, and his expression never changed.

“Stop fighting it.” He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for just a beat. “This is right where you belong.”

The room warped around me as if I was peering through a fisheye lens. My mouth was dry from breathing too fast, and I thought of the cold cans of soda in the fridge. I counted the cupboard doors, the appliances on the counter, telling myself I needed to store the ones we barely used to create more space.

Inside one of the drawers were swatches of paint colors I’d grabbed on a whim a few months ago. The walls were basic white, and I wanted to brighten up the kitchen.

Miguel applied pressure to my trapped arms. “Look at me.”

His voice had a slight growl to it, but I couldn’t. My mind was stuck on what color trim would soften the sunny yellow paint I wanted to use for the walls.

“He’s going to kill you,” I heard myself whisper.