The little girl came running—screaming “Grandpa!”—straight at me. I froze. I didn’t know her. Never seen her before in my life. But she threw herself at my legs, tiny arms gripping tight, face buried in my jeans, sobbing like her heart was breaking.
I raised my hands slowly. “Sweetheart, I’m not your grandpa,” I said, my voice low, calm, careful. She clung tighter. People were staring. A woman in a business suit readied her phone. A man moved protectively in front of his own kids. And there I was—six-foot-three, 260 pounds, tattoos covering my arms, Hellriders MC vest on—looking like someone you definitely don’t want near your child.
“Please don’t let him take me,” she whispered. “Please, Grandpa. Don’t let the bad man take me.”
My blood ran cold. I looked up. A man in his thirties, sharply dressed, was pushing through the crowd. Calm face, but his eyes were hunting. When he saw her on my leg, his expression darkened.
“There you are, Emma!” he called. “You scared Daddy running off like that!”
Emma froze. Her nails dug into my jeans. She was terrified.
“Come on, baby. We’re going to miss our flight,” he urged.
That’s when I made a decision that could’ve cost me everything. I stepped back, keeping her behind me. “She says she doesn’t want to go with you,” I said steadily.
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