He made a sound low in his throat, wet and pleased, and I hated myself for hearing it so clearly. His mouth was close to my ear, his lips curling as though the moment amused him. When his hands gripped me again, more boldly this time, my mind screamed to flee while my body locked in place, trapped between terror and disbelief.
He pressed himself closer, his face buried in my neck, his mouth lingering where my pulse hammered wildly, each kiss a reminder that no one was coming, that this was happening. That was when I felt it—hard and unmistakable against me—and the realization landed with a sickening weight. This was desire, ugly and certain, pressed into my back as if to erase any doubt of what he intended. My stomach twisted violently, shame and terror tangling in a way that made my vision blur.
Something inside me snapped then. The fear that had ruled me for years burned away, replaced by a heat so sharp it felt animal, feral, unstoppable. Before he could react, I turned, grabbed the pot of boiling water from the stove, and hurled it at him with every ounce of rage I had been forced to swallow for far too long. Then I struck him again and again until he fell, bleeding and unconscious.
I ran out of that house without looking back.
In Vancouver, I shed my old name and became Nyah Rodriguez, because survival sometimes required reinvention. Escape was never enough; you had to be ready for what followed.
Sleep never came easily after that, because some pasts do not stay buried. They wait patiently, reminding you why you learned to run and why you learned to fight.
1
NYAH
My arms! My arms! Please don’t fall off!
I had to stop halfway down the service corridor on my way back to the restaurant floor. What on earth had made me think I could carry a full case of champagne all the way from the storeroom by myself? I silently wished I were back upstairs in my comfy office instead of waiting tables and lugging boxes for the waitress who’d called in sick three minutes before her shift.
Unable to find anywhere to sit, I lowered myself into an awkward, hunched-over squat with the box resting on my knees. It wasn’t my most graceful moment, but at least no one was around to witness it. I knew if I put the case down on the floor, I’d never lift it again.
The door at the restaurant end of the corridor swung open, and I hauled myself upright with an unladylike grunt.
A patron stood there—a handsome one, wearing a tailored, dusky blue shirt.
This corridor serviced the bathrooms as well, and dull embarrassment crept up my spine as I realized I’d paused to rest right in the doorway to the men’s room. I stepped back and to the side to give him the right of way.
Our eyes met as he approached, and his eyelashes flashed with interest. I usually found that tiresome, but in his case, I was willing to give him a pass. I wasn’t made of stone, and exchanging a smile with a handsome man wouldn’t be the worst part of my day.
I blew back a lock of hair that had fallen into my face while I’d been hunched over. It flipped gracefully skyward, performed a half-twist with a pike, then flopped right back where it had started—in front of my eye.Perfect.
Dusky Blue offered me a warm smile. “Need a hand with that?”
I sighed—far more emphatically than I’d intended. “Yes, please.”
His smile deepened, showing straight, white teeth. He reached out, took the rogue lock between two fingers, and—while holding my gaze—tucked it back behind my ear.
I flinched. The intimacy of the gesture caught me completely off guard. I didn’t like being touched by strangers, but something about him made my heart start to palpitate. Which reminded me—it was past lunchtime, and I needed to take my medication.
“I thought you meant the box,” I said, swallowing twice before the words would come out.
He stiffened. “Oh my God, I’m so—Here, I’ve got it.”
He stepped into my personal space to take the champagne, closing his arms around mine and effectively hugging me, the box acting as a chaperone.
“It’s okay,” I said, every nerve ending firing at once. “I only need to get it to the bar.” He was so close I could smell his cologne.
“Are you sure?” He took the weight like it was nothing.
“I’m fine.”Please stop touching me.“You shouldn’t anyway. It’s probably against OH&S.” What had gotten into me? The fluttery sensations in my stomach and the tingling, pleasure-laced aches flooding my body had never happened before.
He slowly released the weight, only to step back in when I began to sag. It felt like another six or eight bottles had magically been added.
“You’re not fine.” He lifted the case again, and it floated effortlessly out of my hands. “I’ll take it as far as the door so nobody sees. You can kick it the rest of the way.”
I didn’t fight him. I unthreaded my hands from where they’d been pinned between his wrists and the box, and when that skin-on-skin contact broke, so did the runaway train in my chest.
“I was actually okay, you know,” I said, hurrying to walk alongside him toward the restaurant doors. “I was just resting.”
