Page 14 of Ghost's Revenge
"The hell you're not," David snarls, taking a step closer to Debbie. "You're my wife. Tyler's my son. And you're both coming home right now."
"I'm not your wife anymore." Debbie's voice shakes, but there's steel underneath. "I filed for divorce. The papers—"
"I don't give a shit about any papers. You made vows, remember? For better or worse, in sickness and in health. Till death do us part."
The threat in those last words makes my vision start to narrow, makes the familiar red haze creep in around the edges. This man is threatening her. On my watch. In the place where she's supposed to be safe.
Where Tyler is supposed to be safe.
My phone buzzes again, more insistent this time. I pull it out without taking my eyes off the porch.
Text from Reaper: *Sarah called. Debbie's husband found them. Are you there?*
I type back with one hand: *Here now. Handling it.*
"David, please." Debbie's voice pulls my attention back to the confrontation. "Tyler's finally sleeping through the night. He's not having nightmares anymore. Don't you want what's best for him?"
"What's best for him is having his father in his life. What's best for him is a normal family, not living in some charity house with a bunch of other fuck-ups."
That does it.
I step out of the shadows at the side of the house, letting my boots hit the porch steps hard enough to announce my presence. Both David and Debbie turn toward me, but their reactions are night and day. Relief floods Debbie's face, while David's expression shifts from confusion to anger to something that might be fear.
Smart man. He should be afraid.
"Problem here?" I ask, my voice calm and conversational despite the violence thrumming in my veins.
David puffs up like a rooster, trying to project strength he doesn't really have. "This is between me and my wife, asshole. Walk away."
"Can't do that." I take another step up, closing the distance between us. At six-foot-four, I've got at least three inches on him, and probably sixty pounds of muscle. "See, this is my responsibility now. These women, these kids. They're under my protection."
"Your protection?" David laughs, but there's a nervous edge to it. "Who the fuck are you supposed to be?"
Instead of answering, I let my jacket fall open, giving him a clear view of the gun holstered at my side and the Outlaw Order MC patch sewn onto my vest. Let him draw his own conclusions about what those things mean.
His face goes pale.
"That's right," I say quietly. "So why don't you explain to me why you're here shouting at a woman who clearly doesn't want to see you?"
"She's my wife—"
"She's a woman who left you. That usually means the conversation is over."
David's hands clench tighter, and I can see him calculating his options. He's scared, but he's also angry and humiliated at being challenged in front of Debbie. Men like him don't back down easy, especially not in front of the women they think they own.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he says. "She's confused, got her head filled with bullshit by whoever runs this place. All I want is my family back."
"And what she wants?"
"Doesn't matter. She's my wife. Tyler's my son."
The casual dismissal of Debbie's autonomy, the assumption that what she wants doesn't matter, sends another wave of rage through my system. I've seen this before. In my own house, in Afghanistan, in the trafficking operations we broke up, in a dozen different places where powerful men decided that other people's lives belonged to them.
"Actually," I say, taking one more step closer, "what she wants is the only thing that matters here. And from where I'm standing, it looks like she wants you to leave."
Behind David, I can see movement in the window. Other women who've been awakened by the shouting, faces pressed to glass as they watch the confrontation unfold. They're all thinking the same thing, remembering their own versions of this exact scene. Remembering the men who claimed to love them while terrorizing them.
But this time is different.
