Chapter 3

Morning light filtered through the bedroom window, painting bruises in shades of gold.

I cataloged the damage in the mirror: fingerprints on my throat, bite marks on my breasts, ribs that screamed when I breathed.

Last night, Marcus had been particularly thorough in reminding me who I belonged to.

The diner uniform felt like armor as I pulled it on. Six AM shift. At least Marcus would be at work, entertaining clients with that perfect smile that made everyone think he hung the moon.

"Going somewhere?"

I froze. He stood in the doorway, already dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than I made in three months.

"My shift," I whispered, eyes down. "At the diner."

"About that." He crossed the room, fingers catching my chin. "I've been thinking. Maybe it's time you quit."

My heart stopped. The diner was my only connection to the outside world, my only chance to squirrel away the occasional dollar he didn't know about.

"But... we need the money." It was the wrong thing to say.

His grip tightened. "Are you saying I can't provide for you?"

"No! Of course not. I just—I like feeling useful."

"Useful?" He laughed, but his eyes were cold. "Like you were being useful to that biker yesterday?"

"Marcus, please—"

The shove sent me stumbling backward. My hip caught the dresser, sending his collection of crystal whiskey glasses crashing to the floor. The sound was like breaking ice.

Time stopped.

Those glasses had been a gift from his mother. Perfect, expensive, irreplaceable—like everything else Marcus owned.

"I'm sorry," I breathed, already dropping to my knees to gather the shards. "I'll clean it up. I'll replace them—"

"Replace them?" His laugh was ugly now. "With what? Your pathetic waitress tips?"

Glass bit into my palms as I scrambled to collect the pieces. Blood dripped onto the hardwood floors—floors he'd had imported from Italy. Another mess to clean.

"Look at me."

I didn't want to. But disobedience only made things worse.

He'd removed his belt.

"Stand up."

My legs shook as I obeyed, glass crunching under my shoes. Blood from my cut palms stained my uniform.

"Take it off."

The uniform joined the broken glass on the floor. Marcus circled me slowly, belt dangling from his hand.

"You know," he said conversationally, "I saw how that biker looked at you. Like he wanted to play hero." The belt whistled through the air. "Should I show him what happens to heroes in my town?"

"No!" The word burst out before I could stop it. "Please, Marcus. I'll quit the diner. I'll do anything—"

The belt caught me across the back, driving me to my knees in the sea of broken crystal. Sharp edges sliced into my skin.

"Anything?" He grabbed my hair, forcing my head back. "Then beg."

So I begged. The way he liked it. Please and sorry and I'll be good until the words lost meaning.

When he finally left for work, I was still on the floor, picking glass from my knees with trembling fingers.

"Clean this mess up," he'd said. "Then get your ass to work. It's your last shift—make it count."

My last shift. The thought followed me as I bandaged my cuts and changed into a clean uniform. My last chance to... to what? Run? I'd tried that six months into our relationship. Marcus's private investigators had found me in less than a day.

The morning rush at the diner was brutal. Every movement pulled at fresh wounds, but I plastered on a smile and poured coffee like my world wasn't ending. Again.

"Jesus Christ."

I turned to the familiar voice. Ryder Bishop stood in the doorway, morning sun glinting off his motorcycle's chrome behind him. His eyes narrowed as they took in my split lip, the barely concealed bruise on my cheekbone.

"Don't," I whispered as he stepped toward me. "Please. Just... don't."

He caught my wrist as I tried to brush past him. The touch was gentle, nothing like Marcus's grip, but I still flinched.

"Show me your hands."

"What?"

"Your hands, darlin'. They're shaking."

I looked down. Blood had seeped through the bandages on my palms, staining the coffee pot's handle.

"Break room," he growled. "Now."

"I can't—"

"Now."

Something in his voice brooked no argument. Or maybe I was just tired of arguing.

The break room was empty this early. Ryder closed the door behind us, then pulled a first aid kit from his leather cut.

"Sit."

I sat.

He unwrapped my hasty bandages with surprisingly gentle hands. His breath hissed between his teeth at the mess of cuts beneath.

"Glass?"

I nodded.

"That's all he did?"

I said nothing. Ryder's hands stilled.

"Tessa." My name in his voice made me shiver. "How long?"

"It's not—" The lie died on my lips. I was so tired of lying. "Three years."

He swore softly, reaching into the first aid kit for antiseptic and fresh gauze. "You got family?"

"A sister." My voice cracked. "He knows where she is."

Understanding darkened his eyes. He worked in silence for a moment, cleaning and rewrapping my hands with a tenderness that made my chest ache.

"Last night," he said finally. "After I left. He hurt you?"

I closed my eyes. "It doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't." His voice was thunder again, but his hands remained gentle as he secured the last bandage. "Look at me, Tessa."

I did. His eyes were storm-gray, intense with something that made my breath catch.

"I can help you."

"You can't."

"My club—"

"Would only make him angry." I stood, pulling my hands away. "And when Marcus gets angry, people get hurt. Please, just... forget about me."

"What do you really want?"

No. God, no. What I wanted was to feel safe again. To paint again. To see my sister without fearing for her life. To know what it felt like to be touched with kindness instead of ownership.

But wants were dangerous things.

"It's my last shift," I said instead. "After today, you won't see me again anyway."

Something shifted in his expression. "That right?"

"Please." I moved toward the door. "Just let me go."

His voice stopped me with my hand on the knob. "You know where to find me. When you're ready."

I didn't answer. Couldn't.

But as I walked back into the diner, his words echoed in my head.

Loud and clear.

When you're ready.

Not if.

When.