Page 75 of The Preachers' Promise
I can’t let this happen, no matter what Ophelia’s father decides. I move, rushing forward to help Roman.
I grab the man who has hold of Roman’s arms, but my movement is halted by the press of a sharp blade against mythroat. I swallow and hold my hands up, my gaze never leaving what’s happening to Roman.
I’m not the only one being threatened. Mal has a guard with a gun on him. The one Ophelia had called Devon is holding her back. She’s screaming and crying, her face puce with emotion, clear snot running from her nose.
Her father roars his anger as he storms up to Roman. “You murdered a member of staff and mutilated them in the sickest way. You think you’re remotely the sort of man who should be near my daughter?”
The guard holds Roman up. He’s sagging a little, his nose still gushing blood, a cut on his eyebrow, and his stomach must be hurting him from his posture.
“You’re a sick fuck,” Roman spits.
Her father backhands Roman across the face, and Roman gives a grunt of pain.
Ophelia screams again. “No! Stop!”
Her father turns to Mal and me. “You took my daughter, stole her away from a place where we were trying to get her help. You didn’t even have the fucking decency to let us know she was safe.”
He glances back at Roman, who lifts his head, his eyelids fluttering. One eye is swollen almost shut, the bruising as dark as paint. Roman sniffs—the sound thick and throaty—and then hawks a mouthful of blood right in her father’s face.
There’s a terrible, pregnant pause, a stillness before the onslaught, where everyone is holding their breath as the next moment is decided. If Ophelia’s father is armed, Roman’s action could well be his last. Then Mr. Sinclair roars and pulls back his fist and lets it fly. For a guy who must be in his late forties, or early fifties, he’s got a mean right hook, and Rome’s temple splits under the assault. Bright red blood pours down one side of his face like a mask.
Jesus Christ, they’re going to kill him.
I attempt to move again, desperate to step in and stop this, but the blade at my throat slices my skin. The wet trickle of blood runs down my neck and pools in my collarbone.
“Don’t even fucking think about it,” the man holding the knife growls by my ear.
Only my need to stay alive for Ophelia stops me from doing something stupid.
“Daddy, stop.Nooooo. Stop.”
Ophelia screams out her frustration and, bending down, bites hard into the arm of the man holding her. He yelps, drops his hold on her, and she runs toward her father and Roman.
She grabs her father’s arm as he pulls back to take another swing.
“Stop!”
She screams the word so loudly it seems to get through to him. Her father freezes and blinks a couple of times. I see the exact moment the red mist of rage clears in his gaze. His daughter clings to his arm, digging in with all her might, and tears stream down her face.
“If you touch him again, I’ll never speak to you for as long as I live.”
Her father scowls, but his body sags a little, and I know the fight has gone out of him.
He lowers his arm, but, as he does, the doctor steps forward.
“Ophelia, your friend must face consequences for what he did. The man killed a guard and needs to be punished.”
“A rapist!” Ophelia spits out the word. She places two hands on the doctor’s chest and pushes, sending him staggering back a few steps. “Did you even check that facility regularly? Did you?”
I watch in awe as she prowls after the retreating doctor, a queen defending her king, except in this case the king is a battered and bleeding Roman.
“He saved me.” She points a trembling finger at Roman. “He probably saved my life. At the very least he saved me from being raped.”
Her mother sobs and holds a hand over her mouth.
“You sent me away, Father, to a place where I was held over a bed as a man tried to rape me.Youdid that.”
Her father blinks again, as if he is trying to process what she’s saying.
