Page 33 of The Space Between
Tyler’s face twitches, showing a hint of fear beneath the polish. He didn’t expect resistance. He definitely didn’t expect someone like me.
“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” he says, stumbling forward just an inch. He stops as though he thought about it.
There it is.
That shift. That tiny flicker of temper behind his teeth. The kind of anger that’s always just barely controlled. The kind that looks like a tantrum in a suit. The kind that turns violent behind closed doors.
I’m not a locked door.
I’m the wall behind it. And I’ll protect Blakelyn from him.
“Be smart,” I say, my voice low. “Get back in your truck and never come back.”
“Or what?”
Reece appears beside me, phone in hand. “Sheriff’s already on his way,” he says, tone flat. “So, unless you want a record, I’d start reversing that bitch-ass excuse of a truck, city boy.” Reece’s hands are already fisted. He’d back me if I needed him to. I don’t.
Tyler’s eyes flick between us. Calculating. Annoyed. Fearful.
He should be.
“You think I’m scared of some washed-up river hick and a townie with a badge on speed dial?”
“I think you’re scared of something,” I say. “Or you wouldn’t be here acting like this.”
He glares. “You don’t know shit about us,” he snaps but he’s already opening the door.
“You’re right,” I say calmly. “I don’t. But I know what she looks like when someone’s broken her. I’ve seen it. Ifeltit the second she stepped onto my dock.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw and his nostrils flare.
“You don’t even know what you took from her,” I add, voice razor-sharp. “And the worst part? You don’t care.”
He reverses direction, quickly trying to move past me and Reece. Lunging for Blakelyn.
She flinches and curls into a ball and I fuckingsee red.
Grabbing the front of his shirt, I shove him back hard enough to make gravel skid under his boots, again, and slam him into the truck. He bounces off of it. “Do not touch her.” I rage.
“You gonna hit me again, river rat?” he laughs, eyes lit with the kind of crazy that comes from men who hit women.
“No, I’m not going tohityou,” I say with calm rage—I’ll end him—sensing it, he pales. I shove him again, even harder.
He stumbles—hands up, ready to start swinging back—I take one long step forward, lean in, and let him seeeverythingin me.
The grief. The guilt. The rage. Thepromise.
I’m in his face, but my voice is deadly calm. “If you ever come near her again, I’llendyou. YouknowI will. Youfeelit. Youunderstandit. No one will even know you’re gone. You’ll justcease to exist.”
His eyes widen. He’s the one afraid now.
Good.
He jumps into the truck and hastily cranks the engine, peeling out and throwing gravel at us and the floaters who have been standing here, watching the scene unfold.
I glance over as I hear a whimper. Blakelyn is curled into a tight ball in the dirt and gravel, in the fetal position, one that looks far too comfortable for her.
Like her body finally stopped holding everything back. And she knows how to make herself as small as possible to protect herself the most.
