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“I’m terrified,” I whisper, stopping in front of the ivory double doors. “I can feel my heart beating everywhere, and I might be sick.” My lips tingle from nausea, and I’m not even sure why I’m doing this. Why it matters. Why I feel like I have to. It would be so much easier to just run away and stay gone and never look back. “If I can’t find the right words…”

He tucks me close. “I’m here. We can figure the right words out together.”

Steeling myself, I nod, ring the bell, and wait. Every second passes like a thundering hammer of my heart in my head. With every moment, I convince myself that they’re not even home, and I wonder what’s worse—seeing them now or having to come all the way out here and try again.

An instant before I’m ready to give up and head home, the door opens to present my father’s stern face. “Devina,” he states, tone immovable, eyes locked on Wynnter. “I suppose it’d be too optimistic to believe you’ve come to your senses.”

Behind him, eyes pleading, my mother stands, staring at me.

Swallowing, I waste no time extending the invitation and the list of events leading up to both my wedding and the holiday. “Mom, Dad,” I say past the bubbles in my throat, “Wynnter and I would like to invite you to celebrate with us.” Trying very hard not to notice the way my father has gone stone cold or the way my mother has gone horror stricken, I continue, voice shaking, “We’d be very grateful to have you involved.”

Heavy and hard, my father narrows his eyes on Wynnter. “You think you have any right to be here, boy?”

“If being here keeps you from dragging your daughter upstairs and locking her in her bedroom, you better be—” He swears. “—sure I have a right to be here.”

“I’ll discipline my child how I see fit if it keeps her safe from people like you.”

“All due respect, sir, your child has outgrown her years of discipline. At her age, all you can do is evict her if she’s failing to live up to your house rules.”

“As if you care about respect.” For the first time since we arrived, my father bothers to look at me. “Tell me the truth. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

“No, sir,” I say. “We haven’t—”

“The truth, Devina.”

“But I am—”

“Devina.”

I choke, silenced.

Seething, my father says, “What future do you expect to come from this? How long do you plan to hold on to these delusions of love? What will it take to open your eyes? The first time he hits you? Or the first time he hits your children? You’re going to be stuck in a filthy house with nothing, waiting on someone hand and foot. Is that what you want? Is that the future you want to have?”

With Wynn?

Sure.

It would be bliss to wait on my Wynnter hand and foot, because he would never hurt me, our children, or anyone else unless the people he cares about are in danger. Then, and only then, would he become an iron wall to protect us. I know. I saw it in school with August and the bullies who picked on her. Countless times, he stepped in the way, stable and firm and silent and calm.

I’ve seen him dodge punches.

I’ve seen him grab arms and pin them.

I have never—ever—seen him hit anyone, despite how often he’s had a justifiable opportunity.

“Well?” my father snaps, demanding an answer.

Rough, Wynnter hooks his finger in a belt loop of my skirt, jerks me back, and settles my body firmly behind his. Taking the invitation from me, he presents it and glares down at the older man. He mutters, “This conversation is over.”

My father’s pride bolsters. “I’ll decide when—”

Wynnter plants his full palm and the invite against my father’s chest, shocking the man back a few inches, before Wynnter lets go. Narrowly, my father catches the thick paper.

Wynnter grunts, “All the information you need is there. But, I promise you, if you decide to come and ruin what we have planned with your attitude, you will not be welcome around us or any future kids we have. I refuse to let my children see their mother abused by her own parents, because they will not grow up thinking that it’s normal for their grandparents to make their mother cry.” Turning then, Wynnter scoops me up, settling my rump on his forearm, and starts down the steps back toward his truck.

“We just want what’s best for her!” my father growls. “We want better than you.”

Wynnter halts on the final stair, one foot on the driveway. Cocking his head back, he growls, “If there’s anyone better for her, prove it. Show me someone willing to lay down their life for her sake, because I’ll tell you right now—I’d kill for her, and if anyone dares to come for her against her will, they’ll have to get through me.”