Biscuit stood and let out a low growl.
“It’s okay, boy,” she murmured. “It’s okay. Stay.”
Biscuit sat, his attention on her as he waited for another command.
Garrick’s hand shot out, and she flinched—hard—turning her face away and raising her arms to protect herself.
But he didn’t hit her.
Instead, his palm slammed against the wall beside her head, making her jump.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice almost tender now. “Cowering like I’m some kind of monster. Is that what you think I am?”
She shook her head, tears burning her eyes. There was no good way to respond—nothing she could say that wouldn’t have consequences.
“Answer me.”
“No,” she whispered. “You’re not a monster.”
“That’s right.” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. “I’m your husband. And all I ask is that you respect me. That you don’t humiliate me in front of my colleagues. Is that really too much to ask?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
He stayed there for another moment—close enough for his breath to heat her skin—before he finally stepped back.
“Clean this up,” he said, gesturing to the mess on the floor. “I’m going to take a shower.”
He walked out of the dining room without looking back.
Millie stayed frozen against the wall, her whole body shaking, until she heard his footsteps on the stairs.
Only after Garrick’s footsteps faded up the stairs did Biscuit creep forward. He pressed his nose against Millie’s knee, offering the only comfort he could.
She was just thankful Garrick never went after the dog. So thankful.
She slid down to the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, and tried to remember how to breathe.
She buried her face in Biscuit’s fur and let herself cry—just for a moment—before she had to pull herself together and clean up the mess.
After a moment, she forced herself to stand. To find the broom and dustpan. To scrub the sauce off the wall before it stained.
To be the wife Garrick wanted her to be.
Because if she wasn’t—if she failed again—next time, his hand might not stop at the wall.
chapter
one
Caleb King followedthe fence at the edge of the property, his boots crunching softly over fallen leaves. His dog, Hamilton, walked beside him, the canine’s shoulder brushing Caleb’s leg now and then.
Hamilton was a mix of husky and German shepherd and maybe a little something else. The canine had a thick black-and-white coat and pale eyes that missed very little. He moved with his head low, nose sweeping side to side, tail held still.
Too still.
Caleb slowed. The six-foot fence ran parallel to his path. Its black metal panels were anchored into the slope, the vertical bars evenly spaced and solid under the lights positioned around the property. The vertical pickets were capped with dark, dagger-like points.
This was what Caleb did every morning and every evening—he walked the perimeter as a precaution, to make sure there was nothing to be worried about. Of the three hundred acres they owned here at Refuge Cove, only eight were fenced. The rest were the mountainous woods beyond.
