Page 110 of No Good Fight

Dad murmurs something I can’t make out.

Nia answers before Ryder can even twitch. “I found plates. They’re plain, but we’ll forgive him. He’s handsome and traumatized and currently saving you all from Alex and her weird nesting habits on furniture.”

Josh says her name with warning in it, but it’s weak. Nia has never once respected a warning in her life, especially not from the man she loves enough to bully in public.

I jam my feet into Ryder’s socks because mine are missing, then look down at myself. Leggings. Oversized sweatshirt. Hair that says I survived sex, sleep, and attempted kidnapping in the same twenty-four-hour period. My face feels hot before anyone even sees me.

Ryder picks up my phone from the nightstand and hands it over without crowding me. His thumb brushes mine by accident, and the touch pulls my attention from downstairs for one dangerous second.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“No.” I take the phone and shove it into the sweatshirt pocket. “But I’m wearing pants, so civilization can continue, and you can march me to my doom now.”

His eyes soften.

I hate that it helps.

We walk downstairs together, not touching but close enough that my body knows exactly where he is. Halfway down, I see the kitchen first. My kitchen now, some traitorous part of me thinks, because Ryder’s house has started rearranging itself around my things. My laptop bag is on the chair. My mug is near the sink. My book is laying facedown on the side table. In such a short amount of time, this feels more like home than my apartment ever did.

Then I see my family.

Mom has already claimed Ryder’s kitchen like she paid the mortgage. She’s unpacking containers from a canvas tote, her lips pressed tight while she arranges muffins on a plate Ryder definitely didn’t own yesterday. Dad stands near the island holding two coffee trays, looking lost in the way men look when they want to fix a problem and all they brought was breakfast. Josh is by the back door, shoulders squared, eyes bloodshot, one hand planted on his hip. Nia stands beside him with one hand wrapped around his wrist, not restraining him exactly.

Everyone looks up at once.

I make it down two more steps before Mom’s face breaks. Not all the way. My mother is too stubborn for that. But the second she makes eye contact, the plate in her hand drops toward the counter with a sharp clack.

I should have told them about the abuse. They never should have heard about it through the grapevine.

“Baby.”

The word hits me worse than any question could have. I grip the railing with one hand and force myself to keep walking. If I stop on the stairs, one of them will come get me, and I can’t be carried into this conversation.

“I’m fine,” I say, then wince because every person in the room reacts exactly how I deserve. “Fine is a placeholder. I’m alive, and we can start there.”

Dad sets the coffee trays down carefully, one at a time, like sudden movements might make me disappear. “We brought food.”

“I see that.”

Josh interrupts with a grunt. “You probably haven’t eaten.”

I glance toward Ryder without meaning to. His face gives away nothing, but Nia catches the look and immediately turns to Josh.

“She’s being fed. You can unclench your jaw.”

Josh doesn’t move. “Not now.”

“Especially now.” Nia pulls a coffee from the tray and presses it into his hand. He takes it automatically, still glaring at Ryder, and she pats his chest once like he’s a very large, emotionally unstable dog. “Use your mouth for caffeine before you use it for felonies.”

Mom starts opening drawers with brisk, shaking hands. “Sit down, Alex.”

I don’t listen to her, and I don’t move from Ryder’s side. “Mom.”

“Just for a minute.”

“I’ve been sitting. Lying down. Being checked over. Answering questions. Crying on floors. Barely holding it together. I’m done being arranged for a while.”

That stops everyone. Mom’s hand pauses on the silverware drawer. Dad looks at me from across the island, and the pain in his face is so raw I have to look at the toaster instead.