Chapter 2: James

May's Pov

"Get your ass over here, you little bitch! Where the fuck have you been, huh? Whoring around somewhere?"

A sharp cry escaped my lips as a hand fisted in my hair, yanking me backward so hard my neck cracked.

Well, there went my peaceful evening.

Standing before me was my sweet, loving husband, James Collins, looking like he'd just crawled out of a dumpster and decided to make it his personality. His hair was a disheveled mess, his eyes bloodshot and wild, and was that vomit on his shirt? The stench of cheap liquor and stale cigarettes hit my nose like a physical blow.

Wonderful. He's been drinking again.

"Answer me, bitch!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips.

I flinched, lowering my gaze as his grip tightened. The pain was a sharp, familiar sting.

"N-no, I wasn't." I forced my voice to tremble. "After work at the preschool, I was called for tutoring jobs. That's why I came home late."

I even managed to look suitably frightened, complete with trembling lips and watery eyes. Oscar-worthy, if I did say so myself.

Of course, I couldn't tell my darling husband that I'd spent part of my evening in bed with another man. That would be a rather unfortunate confession.

James clicked his tongue in disgust before shoving me away. I stumbled backward, my hip slamming into the corner of the coffee table as I landed hard on the floor.

Pain shot through my side, a bright, hot flare.

"You better not be lying to me," he warned, looming over me. "Because if I find out you're hiding something..."

He crouched down, bringing his face dangerously close. The smell of his breath made my eyes water.

"You're dead."

A few drops of saliva landed on my cheek. I pressed my lips together, fighting the urge to wipe them away.

"Do you understand me?"

"Y-yes."

"Good."

He straightened up, adjusting his shirt as though he hadn't just threatened his wife. "Besides, I've told you a thousand times that women are supposed to stay home and take care of their husbands. Not run around working all day like they have something to prove."

He shook his head in disapproval, a mockery of paternal concern. "But you're too stubborn to listen. You know I spoil you, don't you?"

Spoil me?

For a moment, I genuinely wondered whether the alcohol had pickled his brain. How could someone open his disgusting mouth and say something like that after treating me like a worthless piece of trash every single day?

If this was his idea of spoiling a woman, I'd rather be poor and unloved.

Unfortunately, I valued my face too much to say any of that aloud.

"Give me your fucking bag."

I blinked. "My bag? Why?"

"Did I fucking stutter? Give it to me!"

He reached for it, but I quickly pulled it against my chest. My heart began to pound a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

No. Absolutely not.

My bag contained my work supplies, my wallet, and several papers I needed for tutoring. But more importantly, I couldn't let him find out how much money I'd earned. If James discovered the truth, that money would disappear into his gambling habit before I could blink.

"James, please. It's just my work stuff."

His expression twisted, his face turning an ugly shade of purple. "Give me the damn bag!"

He lunged for it. I tried to pull away, clutching the strap with both hands, but he was stronger. We wrestled over it, knocking a small table against the wall with a crash.

"Let go, you fucking bitch!"

"Please, James! You're hurting me!"

"Then stop fucking struggling!"

A loud, aggressive knock suddenly echoed through the apartment, three sharp raps that cut through the chaos.

We both froze.

"What's going on in there?" a familiar male voice called from the other side of the door. "I can hear you shouting and furniture banging against the walls!"

Edward. Our middle-aged neighbor. If there were awards for being the most inconveniently observant person in the building, Edward would win every single year. The man had an almost supernatural ability to appear whenever James decided to turn our home into a boxing ring.

Unlike most people who preferred to mind their own business, however, Edward actually did something about it. He hated violence and had threatened to call the police on James more times than I could count.

Still, I was grateful. Even if I would never be brave enough to tell him just how grateful I was.

"It's nothing!" James shouted toward the door.

Before I could even take a breath, he clamped a hand over my mouth. His fingers pressed painfully against my cheeks.

"We're just having a friendly conversation!" he continued, forcing a laugh.

I stared at him. A friendly conversation?

James leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear. "You better not say a fucking word," he whispered.

I nodded quickly. Not because I agreed with him, but because I wanted to get through the evening without giving him another excuse to hurt me.

"If you're treating May badly again, I'm calling the fucking cops!" Edward's voice thundered through the door. "Do you hear me, James?"

James rolled his eyes, but he kept his hand firmly over my mouth.

"Don't test me, boy!" Edward continued. "I've got my eyes on you. You better not do anything stupid!"

James's jaw tightened. "Yeah, yeah! Mind your own fucking business!"

"I'm serious, James!"

"So am I! We're fine!"

There was a brief silence, then Edward muttered something I couldn't quite hear. "Just remember what I said." His footsteps eventually faded down the hallway.

James waited until everything was quiet before finally releasing me. I sucked in a breath, rubbing my aching cheeks. He stared at the door for another moment before turning toward me.

"Fucking nosy old man," he muttered. Then his gaze fell on my bag.

Before I could react, he snatched it from my hands.

"James, please..."

He ignored me. With one violent tug, he unzipped the bag and turned it upside down. Everything came tumbling out. Pens. Pencils. Crayons. My makeup kit. A few papers from work.

And my wallet.

It hit the floor with a soft thud. James immediately grabbed it.

My stomach dropped. Oh, hell no.