I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Show me," Dylan says quietly, but I shake my head violently.
"I just—" My voice breaks. I swallow hard and try again. "I just can't get away from him."
The words come out as barely more than a whisper, thick with tears and desperation. It's the truth I've been trying so hard not to acknowledge. I ran. I changed my number. I blocked him on every social media platform I had. I deleted my accounts entirely just to be safe. I left my apartment in the middle of the lease, forfeiting my deposit and everything in it. I quit my job with no notice. I did everything I was supposed to do, everything everyone says you should do when you're trying to escape.
And he still found me.
Maddox squeezes my hand where it rests on the table, his fingers lacing through mine. "We're going to figure this out," he says with quiet conviction. "You're safe here, Amelia. We won't let him near you."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly. But I've heard those promises before. Vincent used to promise I was safe with him, too, back in the beginning. Back when his smiles were genuine, and his touches were kind. Back before I understood that the possessiveness wasn't love. It was control.
"I just want a day where I can breathe," I whisper, the admission feeling like it's been torn from somewhere deep inside me. "Just one day where I don't have to look over my shoulder. Where I don't jump at every sound. Where I can just... exist. Without being afraid."
I scrunch my eyes closed, bracing myself for the impact of a memory that just won’t stay buried.
Vincent's car door slamming. The sound echoes through the empty parking lot. Some rest stop off the highway, middle of nowhere, two in the morning. I'm in the passenger seat, still buckled in, my hands trembling in my lap.
"Vincent, please—"
"You need to think about what you did," he says coldly, not looking at me. The muscles in his jaw are pulled tight, that muscle in his cheek twitching the way it always does when he'sfurious. "Think about how you embarrassed me tonight. How you flirted with that waiter right in front of me."
"I didn't—I was just being polite—"
"Don't lie to me!" He slams his palm against the steering wheel and I flinch so hard I hit my head against the window. "You think I'm stupid? You think I don't see the way you look at other men?"
I wasn't looking at anyone. I'd barely made eye contact with the waiter. I'd ordered my food quietly, eaten quickly, tried to be invisible the way I'd learned to be when Vincent was in one of his moods. But it didn't matter. It never mattered. The truth was whatever Vincent decided it was.
"Get out."
My heart stops. "What?"
"Get. Out. Of. My. Car." Each word is bitten off, sharp as broken glass.
"Vincent, please, we're in the middle of nowhere—"
"Maybe you'll learn to appreciate me when you have to walk home." He reaches across me and opens my door, then unbuckles my seatbelt. "Out. Now."
I'm crying as I climb out of the car, my legs shaking so badly I can barely stand. It's cold, so cold, and I'm wearing a thin dress because Vincent liked this dress and wanted me to wear it to dinner. The parking lot is empty except for one semi-truck idling in the corner. There are no streetlights. No buildings except the darkened rest stop bathroom. Nothing but highway stretching in both directions, disappearing into darkness.
"Vincent, please don't leave me here—"
But he's already driving away, his taillights growing smaller and smaller until they disappear entirely, and I'm alone in the dark with nothing but my dead phone and my purse and the clothes on my back.
He came back eventually. Three hours later, where I was huddled against the building, shaking with cold and fear and exhaustion. He'd smiled when he pulled up, like nothing had happened, like he hadn't just abandoned me in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night.
"Did you learn your lesson, baby?" he'd asked, and I'd nodded frantically, climbing back into the car with relief, hatred warring in my chest.
I'd learned, all right. I learned that he could do whatever he wanted to me, and I had no power to stop him.
Dylan's arm tightens around me, pulling me back to the present. I realize I'm shaking, my whole body trembling against him as he presses a kiss to my forehead.
"Let's get you to your nest, alright?" His murmurs. "And then maybe something a little bit more comfort food? I've got ravioli and chicken nuggets in the fridge."
Despite everything, I let out a watery laugh. "I'm not a child," I protest weakly, wiping at my eyes with the back of my free hand. "Why do you have that?"
It doesn't make sense. Dylan and Maddox are both in their early thirties, military guys with carefully planned meal prep and protein shakes. The idea of them having frozen chicken nuggets and Chef Boyardee ravioli in their fridge is almost absurd. I've been living with them for three weeks now, and I've never seen either of those things.
