I sink into a chair and finally let myself stop moving.
Everything hurts. My feet, my ribs where the dress has been digging in, my jaw where the bruise is hiding under all that expensive makeup, my chest where something feels cracked and raw and new.
My phone buzzes again. I pull it out with shaking hands.
Seventeen new messages. Six missed calls.
I open the texts because apparently I'm a glutton for punishment.
**Derek: Where the fuck are you?**
**Derek: This isn't funny, Savannah.**
**Derek: You're embarrassing me. Get back here NOW.**
**Mom: Savannah Marie Cross, you call me this instant.**
**Mom: Whatever you think Derek did, I'm sure there's an explanation.**
**Melissa: Sav, please. Everyone's asking questions. Just come back and we'll figure this out.**
**Derek: I swear to God if you don't answer your fucking phone...**
I close the messages. My hands are shaking so hard I almost drop the phone.
*Whatever you think Derek did.*
I think Derek broke my rib last week. I think Derek told me I was lucky he put up with a fat bitch like me. I think Derek made sure I knew that nobody else would ever want me, that my own family thought I was the problem, that I should be grateful he was willing to marry me at all.
I think Derek was going to kill me eventually. Maybe not today. Maybe not next month. But someday, when I said the wrong thing or looked at him the wrong way or burned dinner or committed whatever small, unforgivable sin would be the last one.
I think I knew that, standing in that bridal suite. I think I've known it for a while.
"You okay?"
The voice comes from my left. Male, rough-edged. I look up and find a man watching me from about ten feet away.
He's tall. I can tell even with him standing at a distance. Broad-shouldered. Buzzcut black hair. Sharp blue eyes that arecurrently fixed on me with an intensity that should probably be alarming but somehow isn't.
He's wearing jeans and a black t-shirt under a leather cut that says STEEL SINNERS MC across the back and KNUCKLES on the front.
A biker. Great. Perfect. Exactly what my night needs.
But he's not moving closer. He's just standing there, hands loose at his sides and watching me.
"I'm fine," I say.
His eyes drop to my feet, then back to my face. One eyebrow raises slightly.
"Okay," he says. "You're fine."
He doesn't believe me. I don't blame him. I'm sitting in a casino in a wedding dress with blood on my feet and tears I can't quite suppress making tracks through my makeup. I'm the opposite of fine.
"Do you need help?" he asks.
And fuck, that's the question, isn't it? Do I need help? Yes. Obviously yes. I need so much help I don't even know where to start asking for it.
But this stranger, this biker with scarred knuckles and eyes that have clearly seen shit I can't imagine, can't give me the kind of help I need. Nobody can.
