Page 7 of Bound to Him

"But she's just a girl," my father protests, his voice breaking. "My daughter?—"

My heart stutters. They're talking about me. Or Emma? No—something tells me it's me. I press myself against the wall, blood rushing in my ears so loudly I'm afraid they'll hear it downstairs.

"Your daughter," the voice agrees, "who will be well cared for, provided you cooperate. Consider the alternative, Mr. Brightley. Consider what happens to families who cannot pay their debts to me."

The threat hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable. I can almost see it, a dark cloud descending over our home.

"Can I—" My father's voice is barely audible now. "Can I say goodbye to her?"

"Of course." The stranger's voice is falsely generous. "Family is important. I understand that better than most. You have five minutes."

I should run. The thought crashes into my consciousness with the force of a physical blow. I should run right now, escape through my bedroom window, down the tree outside, away from whatever nightmare is unfolding below. But my feet remain frozen, my body paralyzed by confusion and fear.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs jolt me into action.I retreat quickly to my room, closing the door behind me. My hands shake as I look around frantically. The window, I need to open the window, but before I can move, the door opens.

My father stands there, his face ashen, eyes red-rimmed. He looks decades older than he did at breakfast.

"Dad?" My voice comes out small, childlike. "What's happening?"

He steps into the room and closes the door, leaning against it as if his legs might give out. "Hannah," he says, and the way he says my name—like it's being torn from him—makes my stomach drop. "I need you to listen to me."

"Who's downstairs?" I ask, backing away until I bump into my desk. Paintbrushes clatter to the floor. "What's going on?"

He moves toward me, hands outstretched. "I'm so sorry," he whispers. "I never meant for this to happen. You have to believe me."

"What are you talking about?" Panic rises in my throat. "Dad, you're scaring me."

"There's no time to explain everything." He glances at the door, clearly aware of the ticking clock. "I made mistakes, Hannah. Terrible mistakes. I borrowed money from people I shouldn't have."

Understanding begins to dawn, slow and horrible.The late-night meetings, the tension at home, Mom's worried looks. It all starts to make terrible sense.

"Gambling?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

He nods, unable to meet my eyes. "At first it was just a bit of fun, then it became…something else. I kept thinking I could win it back, fix everything before anyone found out." A bitter laugh escapes him. "Classic addict thinking, right?"

"How much do you owe?" I ask, mind racing to solutions. My scholarship money, maybe taking a year off school to work full-time.

"More than we could ever repay," he says hollowly. "More than our house is worth. More than..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.

"That man downstairs," I say, my voice surprisingly steady despite the terror clawing at my insides. "What does he want with me?"

My father crumples then, falling to his knees, reaching for my hands. I let him take them, too shocked to pull away. "He's powerful, Hannah. Dangerous. The kind of man who gets whatever he wants."

"And he wants...me?" The words feel wrong in my mouth, impossible to comprehend.

"He's offered to forgive the debt," Dad says, his grip on my hands painfully tight. "All of it. The house would be safe. Your mother, Tyler, Emma…they'd be protected."

The room seems to tilt sideways. This can't be happening. These things don't happen in real life, not in small towns with tidy houses and art scholarships and weekend jobs at coffee shops.

"You're selling me?" I ask, the words bitter acid on my tongue. "To pay your gambling debts?"

"No!" he protests, but the denial rings hollow. "It's not like that. He says he'll take care of you, that you'll want for nothing."

I jerk my hands away, stumbling backward. "I don't want to be 'taken care of'! I want my life! My future!" Tears spring to my eyes, hot and angry. "How could you do this?"

"Hannah, please," he begs, still on his knees. "If there was any other way?—"

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