Cora looks up at me, surprise flickering across her face. Maybe no one’s ever asked her that before. She takes another sip of her coffee, buying herself time.
“I don’t know,” she finally says with a small shrug that breaks my fucking heart. “I never found a way to escape. Or maybe I was too scared to try.”
This fierce, defiant woman who stood up to three men hunting her. It doesn’t compute in my head, but I know trauma does weird shit to people.
“You’re an adult,” I point out, trying to keep my tone gentle. “You could’ve walked out anytime.”
She gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Could I? My father controls everything. My trust fund, my connections, my future. Every time I tried to build something separate, he’d find a way to tear it down.”
I turn back to the stove, focusing on pouring eggs into the pan so she doesn’t see how much this is affecting me. The sizzle fills the silence between us.
“The summer after college, I got an internship at this small environmental nonprofit,” she continues. “He called in a favor, had the funding pulled. They couldn’t afford to keep me.”
I watch the eggs cook, trying to process the level of control this man has exerted over his daughter.
“Last year, I rented an apartment without telling him. He found out somehow, called the building manager, convinced him I was unstable. Had the lease terminated before I could even move in.”
“And the bruises? The ones I saw at the Hunt?”
Cora shifts her coffee mug between her hands; eyes fixed on the dark liquid.
“The night before the Hunt. We were at dinner, and I mentioned deferring law school for another year.” Her voice becomes mechanical, like she’s reciting a shopping list instead of describing abuse. “I told him I wasn’t sure if it was right for me.”
I stand frozen at the stove, eggs burning as Cora describes what happened that night. My jaw clenches so tight I can hear my teeth grinding. She recounts her father’s violence with a detached calm that’s somehow worse than tears—the bruises, the slap across her face, the way he threatened to cut her off completely.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter, turning off the burner with a sharp twist. My hands are shaking with rage.
The kitchen fills with the smell of scorched eggs, but I couldn’t care less about breakfast now. All I can picture is Cora on her knees, picking up broken pieces while blood and tears mix on the floor. While that self-righteous bastard straightened his tie and walked away.
I grip the counter to stop myself from punching something.
“And people call me degenerate,” I say, my voice rough. “That sanctimonious piece of shit parades around town talking about justice while he beats his own daughter.”
I look at Cora, really look at her, seeing the strength it took to survive that house. To endure that control. The Hunt suddenly makes more sense—her desperation for some freedom, any escape, even one that landed her with three men who had their own agenda.
I push away from the counter, needing to move. “Fuck, Cora.” I run a hand through my hair, struggling to find the right words. Nothing seems adequate. “You know you’re not going back there, right?” I finally say. “Not after everything. Not ever.”
For a heartbeat, Cora just stares at me, her green eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. Then something breaks insideher. All at once, she’s off the barstool and rushing toward me, colliding with my chest as her arms wrap around my waist.
I freeze for half a second, caught off guard by the sudden contact. Then my arms close around her automatically, pulling her against me as her body shakes with sobs.
“You’re okay,” I whisper into her hair, one hand moving to cradle the back of her head. “I’ve got you.”
She cries harder, fingers clutching me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. Each sob tears through her body and straight into mine. I hold her tighter, absorbing her tremors.
How long has she been holding this in? How many years of pain is she releasing right now?
I’ve never been great with crying women. Usually, I’m looking for the nearest exit. But with Cora, all I want to do is shelter her, protect her from everything—even the memories she carries.
Her tears soak my skin. I press my cheek against the top of her head, breathing in the jasmine scent of her shampoo, and close my eyes.
None of this was supposed to happen. We were going to use her, break her, and walk away satisfied. Instead, I’m standing in Dominic’s kitchen, holding Pike’s daughter like she’s something precious, something worth saving.
And fuck me if she isn’t.
31
LIAM
