Stay in line tonight or else.
She gritted her teeth and forced herself not to snap at him. He wouldn’t appreciate it if she fired back or flipped him off like she wanted.
And there it was.
She’d become conditioned to act and react ashewanted. Trained, like one of the dogs she groomed at work.
And shehatedit.
Shehatedhim.
Shehatedliving like this.
Shehatedherself.
But most of all, shehatedthat she’d walked away from something good because she’d been too young and stupid to recognize it. She’d had everything, including love, safety, people who would die for her, and she’d thrown it away like it wasn’t enough. Like she deserved better. Like better even existed.
And look what she’d found instead.
The average woman went back to her abuser seven times before leaving.
Seven times.
She could break the cycle. She could come in below the average. She could tell him to fuck off and walk out of the apartment forever. She could make everyone she knew proud and dig into the strength she’d always thought she possessed.
She could…
Gohome.
For one second, she let herself imagine it. Her hand on the front door. The click of the lock. The night air on her face as she walked to her car in her pajamas with nothing but her keysand her phone. Driving until Jason was a speck in her rearview mirror. Driving until she couldn’t smell Irish Spring anymore.
So why did she walk back into the bathroom and retrieve her makeup bag?
Why did she feel paralyzed by her own life?
Why, with her heart pounding and palms sweating, did staying feel easier than leaving?
Maybe because leaving meant admitting she’d failed. Maybe because starting over felt like climbing a mountain with broken legs. Maybe because some sick, twisted part of her still hoped tomorrow would be different, and that the Jason she’d fallen for would come back, and this version would disappear like a bad dream.
Or maybe she was just tired.
So goddamn tired.
CHAPTER ONE
“SO, DID Y’ALL fuck?”
Saint tore his gaze from the prospect polishing chrome on his motorcycle and found Gator plopping his wild ass on the opposite bench of the picnic table outside their clubhouse.
The crazy fucker had his signature red bandana tied around his head like a headband. Dirty blond hair in desperate need of a trim poked out in every direction above and below the fabric, like he’d lost a fight with a leaf blower. Sticking with his classic style, he wore a white beater under his cut and the ridiculous cut-off jean shorts they’d teased him about since he’d prospected three years ago. Gator loved nothing more than showing off the missing chunk of his thigh and the jagged scar left by a hungry alligator on his family’s Florida wildlife farm.
He propped his scarred leg up on the bench like it was a trophy. “You got that post-sex glow, brother. I can see it from here. Shoulda worn my damn sunglasses.”
Crazy fucker.
Saint raised an eyebrow at his smirking brother, who threw his head back and laughed his loud, infectious laugh that always got at least one other person chuckling, whether they wanted to or not.
“Oh yeah, you fucked her,” Gator declared, pointing at Saint with the neck of his beer.
