The cut at the corner of her lower lip. My eyes roamed over her now, not in desire but in assessment. Previously blocked by my hunger, every mark was now visible from my anger.
The bruise on her chin.
The swollen eyelid.
The fingerprints on her upper arms.
“He will never fucking touch you again,” I growled.
“I know,” she whispered, as her gaze lowered to the floor. “I killed him.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sadie
It was the first time I had said the words out loud. Simon would barely let me speak when he came to Alan’s house after I called him. He rushed in and took over, not letting me tell him what had happened.
My breath hitched as Billy stared at me.
“Get dressed, Sadie,” Billy ordered, then he turned and walked out of my room while I stood there naked.
I never heard him come in, but I knew he was there. I felt him the minute he stepped inside my room. I’d seen his bike outside. Knew he was here for me. I wanted to ask about Simon. Wanted to ask what the sheriff had done.
But the way he’d looked at me, the way his eyes darkened and his eyelids dropped as if he were drunk at just the sight of me, made me tongue-tied.
Then he moved.
He prowled toward me, hunger radiating off him in waves. He always flirted with me when he came into the salon. But all the guys did. It was just how they were. It didn’t mean anything.
At least, I didn’t think it did.
Every time I checked him out after his appointment, he leaned over the counter to hand me a tip and whispered things to me that I never imagined.
Things he wanted to do to me.
Things I’d begged Alan for.
But Alan told me I was sick. Told me I was demented, like my brother. He always talked about Simon and the way he flirted with men. But he didn’t flirt with Alan.
Not once.
It made him mad, but he wouldn’t admit why. I asked if he was jealous because Simon didn’t flirt with him; that was the first time he hit me. I should have left then.
But I stayed.
Because no matter how many times the bikers came in and flirted with me, I knew it was only in fun. It was who they were. They flirted with everyone. Alan was the first man to pay attention to me.
The first man who wanted me.
And he reminded me of that often.
Every time he hit me.
Every time he degraded me for the way I spoke or the clothes I wore. Every time I tried to defend my brother when Alan called him a faggot or a fairy. Or a fruit.
I’d let my brother down even though he didn’t know it. Because Alan never said those things in front of Simon. My brother might be gay, but he wasn’t weak. He worked out; Alan didn’t.
Where Alan used words to inflict pain, Simon had his fists. The difference was, Simon would never use them on a woman. Not the way Alan used them on me.
