Page 74 of The Preachers' Promise
She offers him a tight smile and squeezes his in return.
We file out of the car, and the armed men step forward.
“Miss Sinclair,” one of them greets her.
“Hello, Devon.”
She ducks her head in a tiny nod, and I want to tell her to lift it again, to hold her chin high.
“It’s good to have you back with us,” he replies, but not before sending a cold glare in our direction.
I grind my teeth and fight not to make a comment. I catch Malachi’s eye and hope I’m telling him by eye contact alone to keep his mouth shut. This is a precarious moment, and one wrong word could fuck everything up.
The armed guards usher us onto the property and walk us to the door. It swings open to reveal Ophelia’s father, his face like fucking stone. Great. His expression is not a good sign.
Ophelia’s mother is standing behind him, and she hops from foot to foot in her excitement to see her daughter.
“Mom,” Ophelia says, her eye brimming with tears.
Ophelia’s mother pushes past her husband, and, ignoring the rest of us, pulls her daughter into her arms. The two women cling to one another, their shoulders shaking as they cry.
“I’m so sorry, Mom.” Ophelia sniffs. “I never meant to worry you.”
“It’s okay, darling. I’m just glad you’re safe now.” Mrs. Sinclair untangles herself from her daughter’s arms but keeps hold of her, as though she’s worried that if she loses contact with her again, Ophelia will just float out of her life. She uses one hand to brush a stray lock of hair out of Ophelia’s face. “But don’t ever do that to me again, okay? Always try to find some way of letting me know you’re safe.”
I want to fight Ophelia’s case, to tell her mom that Ophelia wouldn’t have needed to run if her father hadn’t sent her away, but I keep my lips firmly pinned together. I’m conscious of her father standing there. I hate how this man has so much power over us. It isn’t right. We’re allowing him to make decisions over what’s right for her, when he was the one who sent her away in the first place.
He doesn’t know what’s best for Ophelia.
We do.
We are escorted by the armed men into the living room, and as we walk in, Ophelia following with her mother at her side, I notice the man standing by the large fireplace. He’s in his mid-forties and wearing an expensive suit. His hair is already graying, and his slim face is pinched with concern.
As soon as Ophelia enters, her gaze locks on him, and she cries out.
“No.” She backs up, colliding with one of the guards, who gently moves her forward again, his hand on her back.
“Take your fucking hands off her,” I growl at the guard.
The man glances over at Mr. Sinclair, who gives a brief nod.
My attention goes back to Ophelia. What the fuck? Why is she so scared?
She turns to her dad, her eyes wild. “Don’t send me back there again, you can’t.” She spins back to the man by the fireplace. “Doctor, that place didn’t help me.”
“You’re the bastard who sent her there?” Roman rounds on the man I assume is the doctor who sent her away, and he fucking loses it.
He launches himself at the man, but the guards are faster. Two of them lunge for Roman and grab him. The bigger of the guards restrains Roman, yanking his arms behind his back. The smaller of the two draws back his fist and punches Roman directly in the face. Roman’s head flies back, blood exploding from his nose. They caught him by surprise, and he never got the chance to defend himself.
Ophelia screams, her hands clamped to her mouth.
“Hey!” I yell, torn about what to do. Every instinct wants to see me jump in and protect my fellow Preacher, while I’m also hyperaware of Ophelia’s father.
“What the fuck?” Malachi shouts.
“Do you know what you cost me?” the doctor spits as the guard delivers another two fast blows, this time to Roman’s stomach. Roman tries to fold in two, but the man holding his arms stops him. The guard punches him in the face again, this time cracking Roman’s cheekbone, and I spot a glint of metal. No wonder the first blow stunned Roman so much—the guard is wearing brass knuckles.
This was planned, I realize. Ophelia’s father already knew Roman was going to catch a beating. He wanted us here so he could get his men to deliver it.
