Page 80 of Icing Hearts

Alarm bells go off in my mind and several pieces suddenly come together. Inherently, I know. I know, and I’m silently praying I’m wrong, but I know I’m not.

By all intents and purposes, my dad is a villain. We didn’t just move to Minnesota for me to play hockey. The heat was on him in my hometown, and we had to get out.

There is one thing that sets him apart from most men in his line of work and that is the way he views and treats women. He has standards, and I’ve witnessed him personally commit heinous acts against men who don’t share his views. Hell, once I watched him put a gun in the hands of a woman so she could shoot her narcissistic husband between the eyes. She didn’t even hesitate.

One thing he taught me is this: if a woman says she’s in a bad situation, it usually means one of two things—someone is cheating, or someone is abusive. In Clara’s case, it must be the latter.

“Clara. It’s eighty-five degrees out today.”

“Yup, feels like summer!”

She’s nervous. She knows she said too much, and she’s guessing what I’m about to say. I position my body between her and the door. There’s no escaping this.

“You’re in a dark, long sleeve shirt.”

She shrugs. “Since when do you care about my fashion choices?”

“Take off your shirt, Clara.”

“Oh, now you want me?”

“Take off the shirt.”

“Tory.”

“Unless you want me to tear it from your body, lose it.”

“You wouldn’t.”

I step forward, invading her space. “Wouldn’t I?”

Tears stream down her face. She knows this won’t end well. There’s no going back after this. “Please,” she begs me.

“NOW.”

She jerks back, turning around toward the windows, black with night save for the lampposts along the walkway far off by the ocean. It’s bitterly cold in the room thanks to the air conditioning, and she’s in damp clothes. No sane person would refuse to change.

Slowly, as if she can make time halt or slow down—delay the inevitable, she lifts the shirt over her head. She drops it to the floor with a wet flop, takes a steadying breath and turns to face me.

Never have I gone from such heights to such depths in such haste. The kiss is forgotten. When I see the marks on her body, I want to claw my eyes from their sockets. But that just won’t do, because then I—unaccustomed to blindness—would be unable to gut the person responsible for hurting Clara. At least not with any semblance of a proper torture strategy. And I—the son of a ruthless criminal—am no stranger to torture strategy.

My eyes dance over her body, immediately zeroing in on the bruises on her arm, ribs, and collarbone. A trio of blooms. Angry, pocked red in the middle, radiating, and fading to pink at the edges. In the shape of a hand on her forearm, a fist on her collarbone, a…a shoe on her ribs.

My lip starts to tremble, but I square my jaw to steady it. I take a step away, then back, raking a hand down my face, trying to process this level of fury. Flying off the handle would not bode well for me at this moment, no matter how angry I am at the person responsible for hurting Clara. She needs me in control.

The words are calm, measured. “You likely already know what I’m going to say next, and I likely already know the answer. But I’m going to ask, anyway.” I try and fail to mask the violence in my tone when I say, “Who did this to you?”

She twists her hands, a pained expression across her face. Several long moments pass, and I wait in silence.

Finally, she says, “The chief.”

Not “dad.” Never “dad.” Because a real father would never do this.

A sharp intake of air fills my lungs. Exactly as I suspected a moment ago. I should have known. This is all my fault. I knew he was horrible. I should have dug deeper, sooner. Should. Should. Should. The word screams through my mind, drowning everything else out until I meet her gaze and see the tears streaming down her cheeks. I see red, but I need to hold it together to be strong for her.

I nod and step closer, she inhales sharply. I try not to take it personally. She’s scared, and it’s likely a trauma response. Her comfort is what matters right now, and she needs to be out of these damned wet clothes.

“Let’s get you changed,” I whisper, gesturing with my finger for her to turn. Clara hangs her head low as I unhook her bra. Six inches remain between us while I work, sliding the straps down her arms. When she’s exposed to the window, her arms cross over her chest until I get the t-shirt over her head. I drop to my knees, and the dark carpeting digs into my skin. It’s damp where she’s been standing, dripping, desperate to hide the truth.

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