Chapter 1 #2

"Ah yes, your criminal family." He stops in front of me, reaching out to finger the necklace at my throat. "Still choosing them over me, I see. After everything I've done for you."

"That's not?—"

The slap comes fast, controlled.

Just hard enough to sting, to remind me of my place, but not hard enough to mark.

He's gotten very good at walking that line.

"Don't lie to me," he says conversationally, as if he didn't just hit me.

As if this is normal. "You've been avoiding me. Taking hours to respond to texts. Making excuses. Do you think I'm stupid, Everly?"

"No," I whisper.

"No, what?"

"No, you're not stupid."

"That's right. I'm not." He grips my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I know everything you do. Everyone you talk to. Every lie you tell. Don't forget that."

The threat is clear.

He's watching, always watching.

Through whatever network of connections he's built, whatever hold he has on people.

The Patriot connection Regnor mentioned at Thanksgiving haunts me.

How deep do Dylan's tentacles reach?

"I'm here now," I manage.

"Yes, you are." His thumb brushes over where he slapped me, a mockery of tenderness. "Because you know what happens if you're not. Don't you?"

My throat tightens. "Bjorn gets hurt."

"Very good." He releases me, moving to his bar. "You can be taught. Drink?"

"No, thank you. I'm not feeling?—"

"I said, drink." He pours two glasses of wine, pressing one into my hand. "You'll relax. You're always so tense around me. It's insulting."

I take the glass, pretending to sip.

The smell alone makes my stomach roil.

If I am pregnant, alcohol is the last thing I should have, but refusing him outright is dangerous.

"Sit," he commands, gesturing to the white leather couch.

I perch on the edge, careful not to spill the wine.

He settles beside me, too close, his thigh pressing against mine.

I fight the urge to shift away.

"We need to discuss your future," he says, swirling his wine. "This rebellious phase has gone on long enough."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. That's why you need me to think for you." He takes a long sip. "You're going to quit that pathetic job. This week."

"What?" The word escapes before I can stop it.

His eyes narrow dangerously. "Did you just question me?"

"I... Dylan, I love my job. I help people?—"

"You play dress-up in an ugly uniform and pretend to be important," he cuts me off. "It's embarrassing. When my colleagues ask what my girlfriend does, I have to admit you work? Like some common laborer?"

"I'm an EMT. I save lives." A spark of my old self flares, indignant.

"You're an embarrassment," he says flatly. "No woman of mine needs to work. You'll quit, and that's final."

"I can't just quit. They need me. We're already short-staffed?—"

"I don't give a fuck what they need." His voice drops, deadly quiet. "You seem to be forgetting how this works, Everly. You do what I say, when I say it. Or would you prefer I remind you?"

The threat hangs between us.

I know exactly what he means. Tuesday. 2 PM. Third floor.

"I'll... I'll think about it," I comment.

"No, you'll do it." He sets down his wine glass with careful precision. "This week. Tell them whatever lie you need to. Family emergency, health issues, I don't care. But you will quit."

"Dylan, please?—"

"Or," he continues as if I hadn't spoken, "I could have a chat with your brother. Heard prosthetics can be tricky. One wrong adjustment, one bad fall... Sixteen is so young to be paralyzed from the neck down, don’t you think?"

The wine glass shakes in my hand. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" He leans closer, breath hot on my face. "I warned you what would happen if you kept defying me. Actions have consequences, Everly. Your brother's already missing one leg. Want to see if he can function without the use of his arms, too?"

Bile rises in my throat. "I'll quit," I whisper, defeated.

"Good girl." He pats my cheek condescendingly. "See how easy that was? When you just... comply?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

The wine glass weighs a thousand pounds in my hand.

"Now then," he says, standing abruptly. "Since you're here, might as well make yourself useful."

My stomach drops. I know that tone.

I know what comes next.

"Dylan, I'm really not feeling well?—"

"You never feel well when I want you," he snaps. "Funny how that works. Always some excuse. Headache, stomachache, tired. Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"No, I just?—"

He grabs my wrist, yanking me to my feet.

The wine glass falls, red liquid spreading across his pristine white carpet like blood.

The sight of it makes me freeze—he's obsessive about his apartment, about keeping everything perfect.

"Look what you did!" His face contorts with rage. "You stupid, clumsy bitch!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean?—"

"Shut up!" He drags me toward the bedroom, grip bruising on my wrist. "You'll clean that up after. Right now, you're going to remind me why I keep you around even with your constant failures."

"Dylan, please?—"

"I said shut up!"

He throws me onto the bed hard enough that I bounce, the breath knocked from my lungs.

I try to scramble away, but he's already on me, hands rough and possessive.

"You're mine," he snarls, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand while the other tears at the expensive dress. "Mine to do with as I please. About time you remembered that."

What happens next splinters into fragments.

I've learned to disconnect, to float somewhere above my body while it endures what my mind can't process.

It's how I survive.

How I've been surviving for months now.

But this time is different.

Meaner, more violent, like he's punishing me for every moment of perceived defiance, every second I've spent away from him.

His hands leave new bruises over old ones.

His teeth leave marks that will take weeks to fade.

And through it all, one thought circles my mind:

What if I'm pregnant? What if there's a baby?

When it's finally over, he rolls away, dismissive and satisfied. "Clean yourself up," he says without looking at me. "You look disgusting."

I stumble to the bathroom on legs that barely hold me.

Everything hurts. Everything aches.

In the harsh vanity lighting, I look over the new damage—bruises already forming on my hips, wrists, throat.

Bite marks on my shoulders.

The dress is destroyed, seams ripped, silk torn.

Just like me.

Torn apart and hastily stitched back together so many times, I don't remember what being whole feels like.

I run the water cold, splashing my face, trying to shock myself back into my body.

That's when I see them—my birth control pills in his medicine cabinet.

Why would they be here?

I pick up the pack with trembling fingers, examining it closely.

The pills look… lighter in color.

Wait a second… are these duds, or are these actually my pills, and the fake ones are at my place?

"No," I breathe, horror washing over me in icy waves. "No, no, no."

I count backward frantically.

When was my last real period?

Not the spotting I sometimes get on birth control, but an actual period?

Six weeks.

Six fucking weeks.

The nausea hits full force, and I barely make it to the toilet before I'm retching.

Nothing comes up but bile—I haven't eaten in over a day—but my body heaves anyway, rejecting the truth along with everything else.

He tampered with my pills.

The one protection I had, the one choice that was still mine, and he took it.

Replaced them with placebos or sugar pills or God knows what.

"Everything okay in there?" Dylan calls, sounding bored. "Don't take all day."

I flush quickly, rinsing my mouth with shaking hands. "Fine," I manage. "Just the wine on an empty stomach."

"Well, hurry up. That carpet won't clean itself, and I have plans tonight."

Plans.

Probably with another woman.

One who's newer, not yet broken, still shiny with possibility.

I should be jealous, but all I feel is relief.

Maybe if he finds a new toy, he'll finally let me go.

But I know better. Dylan doesn't release his possessions. He destroys them.

I look at myself in the mirror one last time.

Bruised. Broken.

Possibly pregnant with my abuser's child.

This is rock bottom, right? It has to be.

But even as I think it, I know the truth.

With Dylan, there's always further to fall.

I clean myself up as best I can, using his robe since the dress is unwearable.

When I emerge, he's already dressed in fresh clothes, scrolling through his phone like nothing happened.

Like he didn't just violate and brutalize me.

Like this is all fucking normal.

"About time," he says without looking up. "I have a business meeting. You'll clean the carpet before you leave. And make sure you do it properly. If there's even a hint of a stain when I get back..."

He doesn't finish the threat.

He doesn't need to.

"And Everly?" He finally looks at me, eyes cold and calculating. "Next time I summon you, you come immediately. Not when it's convenient. Not after you think about it. Immediately. Understand?"

"Yes," I whisper.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Good. Now get dressed and clean up your mess. You look pathetic in my robe." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and throw that dress away. You've ruined it with your weight gain. I'll buy you something more appropriate for a fat girlfriend."

The door closes behind him with a decisive click.

I stand there for a moment, his robe hanging off my frame, feeling smaller than I've ever felt.

Then, mechanically, I get to work.

I find cleaning supplies under his kitchen sink and tackle the wine stain.

On my hands and knees, scrubbing at the carpet while my body aches from his abuse.

The symbolism isn't lost on me—cleaning up messes, erasing evidence, making everything look perfect on the surface while underneath, the damage spreads like poison.

It takes an hour to get the stain out completely.

By the time I finish, my knees are raw from the carpet, my hands red from the cleaning solution.

I dress in my torn clothes, using safety pins from his drawer to hold the dress together enough to get home.

The journey to my car feels endless.

Every step hurts.

Every movement reminds me of what he did, what he's been doing to my birth control, what might be growing inside me right now.

I make it to my apartment through sheer force of will.

Triple-lock the door, then collapse on my bathroom floor, finally letting the tears come.

Great, heaving sobs that shake my entire body.

Tears for who I used to be.

For who I've become.

For the innocent life that might be caught in this nightmare with me.

My phone buzzes.

Him, of course:

You did well today. Same time, Thursday. Don't disappoint me again.

Thursday.

Three days.

Three days to take a test, to know for sure.

Three days to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do if I'm carrying Dylan’s baby.

Because one thing is crystal clear—he can never know.

If he's willing to sabotage my birth control to trap me, what would he do with an actual baby?

Use it as the ultimate weapon.

The permanent chain.

The leverage that would keep me under his control forever.

"No," I say aloud to my empty bathroom. "No fucking way."

If I'm pregnant, I need help.

Real help.

The kind that can stand up to Dylan and his connections and his threats.

I need the club.

I need my family.

But first, I need to know for sure.

Tomorrow, I'll buy a test.

Tomorrow, I'll face the truth.

Tonight, I'll just try to survive until morning.

My hand drifts to my stomach, protective instinct already kicking in. "If you're in there," I whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. But I promise—he won't touch you. I won't let him. Even if it kills me."

And given Dylan's escalating violence, it just might.

But for the first time in months, that doesn't scare me.

What scares me is the thought of an innocent baby born into this hell.

That's what finally gives me the strength I've been missing.

Not for me.

For them.

For the maybe-baby who deserves better than Dylan as a father.

Who deserves a chance at a life free from fear and pain, and control.

Even if their mother has forgotten what that feels like.

"I'll figure it out," I promise the maybe-life inside me. "Somehow, I'll get us both free."

The first step is admitting I need help.

The second is finding someone strong enough to give it.

And I know exactly who that someone is.

The memory of Thanksgiving flashes through my mind. Regnor's dark eyes.

His blunt words: "Say the word, and that problem of yours disappears."

Maybe it's time to say the word.

Maybe it's time to admit I can't do this alone.

Maybe it's time to let someone help me, before it's too late for both of us.

If I'm pregnant, everything changes.

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