Page 31 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
Her father opened it—a man with slicked-back hair and a smirk that never quite reached his eyes—and the moment he saw me, he tried to slam it shut. My boot caught the gap.
“Blake Weston,” I said evenly. “I’m here for Holly.”
“She’s not here.”
“You're lying. I've seen the video of that piece of crap picking her up from the shelter.”
Rafe and Duke had moved in behind me, arms crossed, solid walls of quiet muscle. Tyler and Mason watched from the driveway, scanning the street.
Turner's eyes widened in surprise, but then straightened his tie, trying to puff himself up. “She’s home where she belongs. You’re trespassing.”
“I’m not leaving without her.”
“We’ll call the police.”
“Please do,” I said, voice flat. “I’ll wait.”
That made him hesitate. Crooked men always hated official eyes on their business. There was always the chance he hadn't locked them all down and a lot of cops couldn't be bought. His wife appeared in the hallway—polished, brittle, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “She’s not well,” she said smoothly. “She’s had a breakdown. We’re getting her help.”
“Is that what you call locking herin the dark?” My voice shook before I forced it steady again. “I want to see her now or I'll have every law enforcement agency in the known universe out here.”
For a heartbeat no one moved, and then Vincent strolled out of the den. His tie was loose, his smirk perfect, his confidence oozing like cheap cologne. “You’re making a scene, Weston,” he said. “Holly’s my fiancée. She’s not going anywhere.”
Rafe murmured in a stage whisper beside me, “You want me to call Zoe?”
I caught on immediately. “Yeah, Rafe—what’s the name of that federal agent your sister married again?”
It was pure bluff. Rafe’s brother-in-law actually taught kindergarten, but the Turners froze. Even Vincent’s smile faltered, just a fraction.
Finally, Turner snapped, “Go wake her.”
Ten long minutes later, Holly appeared.
She looked smaller than I remembered, shoulders hunched, hands folded tightly in front of her as if she could make herselfdisappear. The bruise under her eye had faded, but the light behind her gaze was gone. Her mother’s hand sat heavy on her shoulder, guiding her like she was property, and Vincent lingered close enough to make it clear he thought she was his.
“Sweetheart,” her mother cooed, “these men want to take you away from your family.”
Holly flinched at the wordsweetheart.
Her father stepped forward, his voice dripping false warmth. “You frightened us, pumpkin. But we forgive you. You’ve been confused.”
Vincent moved closer, his tone smooth as poison. “No one wants to hurt you, darling. You belong here, where you’re loved.”
She whispered the wordloved,but it didn’t sound like belief. It sounded like surrender.
Holly
Blake’s voice cut through all of it—low, rough, and steady.“Holly.” Something in the way he said my name made me look up. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t pushing. Just waiting.
He reached into his jacket, and when his hand came out, I forgot how to breathe.
Banjo.
My heart stuttered. “Banjo?” The word scraped out of me like a prayer.
He nodded. “Yeah. He’s been guarding your bed, but he’s getting lonely.” His throat worked, and then, quieter, “We both are. Biscuit's in the truck."
My vision blurred. My lower lip trembled, and I bit it, hard, trying to stop.
