Page 27 of Fighter Daddy's Girl

“You are going to love me, Gracie. If it takes a month or a year, you are going to love me. Do you understand?” he warns.

Before I can say a word, something heavy crashes upstairs, followed by the sharp tinkling of glass shattering. A second after that, heavy footsteps sound above me.

“Grace!” he roars.

Griffin’s voice echoes through the house, and my heart leaps into my throat. Bryson’s face pales, and for the first time since he took me, I see fear flash across his face. He stands there, seeming to be frozen in indecision, not knowing what to do.

“Griffin, I’m here!” I scream. “I’m down here! In the basement!”

Bryson hisses in anger, my cries for help snapping him out of his paralysis. And the sound of Griffin’s boots booming down the stairs spurs him into action. He quickly steps over to me, grabs me by the hair, and yanks me to my feet. I cry out in pain, but he spins me around, pressing his chest to my back and putting the barrel of the gun to the side of my head just as Griffin rounds the corner. Tears stream down my face, and I’m shaking so hard, I feel my bones rattling.

Griffin stands in front of us, his face red and twisted with absolute rage. His eyes are narrowed to slits, and his lips are curled back over his teeth in a vicious snarl.

“Let her go, right fucking now,” he growls.

“I’m not going to let you take her from me,” Bryson says. “She deserves better than a meathead piece of shit like you. A lot better.”

“And you think that’s you?”

“I know it’s me.”

Griffin looks at Bryson like he wants to tear him limb from limb with his bare hands. And although he’s putting up a brave front, Bryson is holding me so close, I can feel his heart racing and the tremble running through him. He’s every bit as scared as I am. The gun shaking in his hand, he turns it on Griffin, who doesn’t even flinch or look in the least bit scared.

“Last chance,” Griffin says. “Let her go, or I am going to take that gun away from you, and then I’m going to kill you. I’m going to count to three. Got it? Here we go.”

“If I can’t have her, nobody’s going to,” he says. “Least of all, a piece of garbage like you.”

“One…”

“I’m the one holding the gun, moron,” Bryson shouts.

Griffin doesn’t look at all intimidated. It’s like this isn’t the first time he’s had a gun shoved in his face or something. Bryson’s knuckle whitens on the trigger, and I know he’s getting ready to pull it. The thought of him killing Griffin scares me as much as the thought of him killing me. I know I need to do something.

“Two…”

“You’re going to die,” Bryson says.

Before Griffin can count off three, I drive my right elbow straight back into Bryson’s chest while throwing my left hand up,pushing his arm toward the ceiling. He lets out a loud “oof,” and the gun goes off, the recoil knocking it out of his hand. It clatters to the ground, but before I can reach for it, Bryson shoves me down.

From my position on the ground, I watch as Griffin pounces on the opening. He kicks the gun across the room, then wades in and delivers a combination of jabs and hooks to Bryson’s body and face. Blood pours from the professor’s mouth and nose, his eyes are unfocused, and he’s suddenly looking unsteady on his feet. Griffin grabs the man by the back of his head and brings his head down. At the same time, he brings his leg up with real force, and when Bryson’s face connects with Griffin’s knee, I hear a sickening crunch of bone, see a spray of blood, and watch as my professor goes entirely limp and crumples to the ground.

Then Griffin is beside me, his arm around my shoulders, helping me to my feet. He looks me up and down, his silver-blue eyes filled with worry.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. Just a little shaken up, I guess.”

“Did he … hurt you?”

I shake my head. “No. He didn’t touch me. Other than when he grabbed and dragged me here, anyway.”

He lets out a long breath of relief and pulls me to him, wrapping his big, strong arms around me. Griffin places a kiss on the top of my head. As he holds me, I glance at the prone figure of my professor. He hasn’t moved since he went down. Keeping my arms around Griffin’s waist, I lean back and look up at him.

“Is he … Is Professor Bryson?—”

Griffin shakes his head. “No, he’s just unconscious.”

I don’t know why—I shouldn’t care after what he did—but Griffin’s words send relief rushing through me. He gives me a small smile and then pulls me away, directing me toward the stairs. He stops and grabs the weapon, tucking it into the waistband of his pants, then puts his arm around me again and helps guide me up the stairs.

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