Page 104 of Penalty Kiss
Scott Maddox appears, a blur of motion, shoulders low, tackling the other goon with a textbook form that would make an NFL scout weep. The man goes down hard.
One of them recovers, now holding on Tara like a shield. He’s dead to me.
I slam him into the vendor table. Chocolate cookies detonate. He hits pavement hard, and I'm already on top—knee pinning his shoulders, elbow across his throat.
He claws. I catch his wrist, twist until something pops. My palm cracks across his jaw—controlled, final.
"Touch her again," I hiss in his ear, "and I'll end you."
His body goes limp. Smart man.
But Lucien, dazed and furious, scrambles to his feet and lunges for Tara again.
Not happening.
This time, my left hook connects. My prominent hand. The power flows from my heels, up through my core, and explodes from my knuckles. He goes down, and this time, he stays down. Out cold.
Tara stumbles, legs wobbling. Before she can fall, I’m there. I catch her with the kind of grab that’s equal parts muscle memory and sheer need—one arm locking under her knees, the other around her back, hauling her up against me.
She breathes into my chest, small and frantic, and I hold her tightly against my chest until the shaking eases.
“You okay?” I demand, voice rough. Her hands cup my face, fingers trembling.
“Yeah,” she nods, though the word is thin. Her pulse hammers against my palm.
A group of kids who had been watching from the hay bales lets out a ragged cheer. The whole market seems to erupt in applause.
Sirens cut through the air, and seconds later, police officers are swarming the scene, cuffing the goons. Chief Alvarez personally yanks a groaning Lucien to his feet and shoves him against the side of the van.
“Lucien Delacroix,” she says, her voice ringing with authority, “you’re under arrest for attempted kidnapping, assault, arson, reckless endangerment, intimidation, and vandalism.”
From the back of the crowd, a familiar voice shouts, “And for bad fashion choices!”
The tension breaks. The whole damn town erupts in laughter. Lucien screams like a spoilt child.
Just when I think it can’t get any more surreal, a long, black limousine glides to a stop at the edge of the scene. Sleek and expensive and completely out of place among the pickup trucks and restored chrome classics at the market.
The back door opens, and a man steps out, commanding attention without trying. Early sixties, tall, with immaculate silver hair and a suit that probably costs more than a car.
The crowd falls silent again, sensing that whatever just happened was only the opening act.
"Papa," Tara whispers in my arms.
Chapter 18
One Chosen Home
Tara
"If I were twenty years younger, I'd climb him like a tree.” I hear Mrs. Henderson stage-whispers. And Karla nearly chokes on her funnel cake.
Nervous laughter trickles through the cluster of townsfolk around us, but my spine locks tight.
Because the man drawing every stare and scandalized gasp is the one I swore I’d never let into this world.
Julien Delacroix. My father.
He looks exactly as I remember—sharp suit, sharper features, with maybe a few more silver strands gleaming under the sun. He has the kind of practiced charm that makes people lean in before they realize they’ve been captured.
