Page 213 of Always Love You More

“No, he won’t.”

“You don’t know how he—”

My father bends down, handing me my phone. “Because you’re gonna tell him you’re fine, that this is a family matter.”

I start to shake my head.

“He almost killed me,” Carson says, drawing our father’s attention.

The statement sets him back on his mission, and he nods. “You’re done with that boy. I don’t want you seeing him again.”

“No.” I lean forward. “No, you can’t tell me to do that. I’m eighteen; you can’t make me stop seeing him.”

“I can when you live under my roof.”

“Fine, then I’ll leave.”

“And where are you gonna go? To him? No fucking way.”

“Why do you even care?”

“Because you’re my daughter!” he bellows.

There’s no love behind his words. It comes out as a statement. A claim of control. And it only fuels my rage.

He’s given me nothing. Never cared for me. Never put my needs before his own. He’s been a pathetic excuse for a father my whole fucking life.

“Oh, don’t try to act like that’s ever meant anything to you before,” I scoff.

He closes the space between us, his eyes blazing, and my rage is quickly replaced with fear.

“You go to him, and I’ll show up at his house and drag you back by your hair. I’m not scared of that little punk.”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because”—he motions to Carson—“your actions have consequences, and this time, you really fucked up.”

“I didn’t do—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he barks. “And if I ever see that boy of yours in my house again, you’re not gonna like what happens. You can fucking trust me on that.”

I’m not even sure what to say. I just stare back at him, wide-eyed.

He points to the phone in my hand. “Now you call him back and tell him you’re fine. None of this crybaby drama shit. I don’t need him storming in here from your fucking theatrics.”

I move to stand when Carson says, “You got nothing to say to me.”

I tilt my head. “What do you—”

“An apology.”

“An apology?”

He looks over at our father, and I trace his gaze, finding him watching me expectantly.

I swallow down my rage, my fucking fury. But I’m stuck, literally and metaphorically backed into a corner.

“Samantha?” my father presses.