Page 105 of Penalty Kiss
To Mrs. Henderson, he’s a prized bull in the china shop of her fantasy. To me, he’s a cage with a heartbeat.
They see charisma. I see control. They hear smooth baritone. I hear contracts disguised as lullabies for his little girl.
My father surveys the scene—his nephew in handcuffs, me in Cam’s arms, half the town forming a protective barrier around us—with the calm assessment of a man used to controllingevery variable. His gaze finally settles back on Lucien, and his expression hardens.
“Uncle Julien, glad you're here. These people attacked me. I was just trying to bring Taralyn home where she belongs—"
"You foolish boy, you've disgraced this family for the last time," he says, his voice carrying clearly across the square. “I turned over your wire transfers, shell corporations, syndicate ties—every shred of it—to the federal authorities. They’ll finish the job. But understand this—” his gaze cuts like steel, “you ceased being a Delacroix the moment you came for my daughter.”
Lucien screams as he's shoved into the cruiser.
Then, Julien's gaze falls on me. The town holds its breath.
"Taralyn. Come home."
It’s not a request. It’s an order — the same tone he used to close billion-dollar deals, the voice that sent me running three years ago. Cold dread coils in my gut. The part of me trained to memorize contracts and stock tickers wants to nod, to obey, to make the problem disappear.
Then, I feel Cam’s hand, a warm, solid weight on the small of my back. It’s not a push. It’s an anchor. A reminder.
I also feel the eyes of the crowd on me—Mrs. Henderson holding on to Karla; Scott, dusting off his hands; Lily, standing protectively near the back, her expression fierce.
They didn’t see an heiress. They sawtheirTara. They fought for me with sourdough and decorative gourds.
My spine straightens. The fear recedes, replaced by a steel I didn’t know I had. I carefully disentangle myself from Cam’s embrace, but I don’t step away. I stand beside him, our shoulders brushing. A unit.
I’m not my father’s daughter anymore.
“No, Dad,” I say, my voice impossibly calm. “I’m already home.”
My father ignores me, like he always did. His pointed gaze slides to Cam instead. A flicker of irritation in hisslate blue eyes. Then, he dismisses him with a glance, as if Cam is nothing more than a temporary, inconvenient bodyguard.
Before I can retort, Cam speaks. His voice isn’t loud, but it carries a weight that rivals my father’s. It’s the calm, unshakable certainty of a man who knows exactly where he stands.
"You heard her."
I can see the flare of impatience on my father’s face. “This is a family matter.”
Cam’s voice cuts through the hush, steady as bedrock. “She is my family.” His eyes lock on my father’s, unblinking. “And this is her home. So I’m not going anywhere.”
The words sink into me, mending cracks I didn’t even know were there.
She is my family.
He doesn’t speak for me. He doesn’t try to save me. He stands with me. He is my partner.
My father’s jaw tightens. He’s not used to being challenged, especially not by a blueberry-stained hockey player in jeans. Before he can respond, Chief Alvarez is there, her expression unreadable.
“Mr. Delacroix,” she says, her tone all business. “I’m going to need to take your statement. As for your nephew,” she jerks her head toward Lucien, who is now screaming obscenities from inside the police cruiser, “he’ll be processed downtown.”
The first flashes of cameras go off as a news van screeches to a halt nearby. My father’s security team, materializing from nowhere, forms a human wall.
“We will speak in private,” my father says, his focus back on me.
There’s only one place to go.
The silence in the Sugar Mill Loft is heavier than the August air outside. My father stands by the large window, looking outover the quaint rooftops of Cedar Falls as if trying to understand a foreign language. He hasn't said a word since we arrived, his disapproval a palpable force in the room.
Cam is a silent, reassuring presence in Sugar Jar’s kitchen—the muted clink of mugs, the hiss of water, the quiet rhythm of someone anchoring me without intruding. A sentinel. My sentinel. It’s everything.
