All Bark All Bite (The Greyline #1)

Prologue

Three years ago

My heart strings tug viciously in my chest as I pull the forbidden file from my memory.

“Devin please calm down—” I plead, the road blurring in my vision as the tears stream down my cheeks.

“How the hell can you tell me to calm down, Florence— you’re trying to leave me!”

He rips the sun visor down from the car ceiling, chucking it into the back seat.

“Look what you’re doing! Why wouldn’t I leave!” I scream through my agony. White spreads across my knuckles as I grip the steering wheel, turning us sharply down a back road.

The sun is glaring down against the pale pavement, overgrown ditches barely lining the cracking edges. Devin roars, grabs a hold of the rearview mirror, pulling it off with a pop and slams it into the windshield. Glass instantly shatters.

“Please, Devin, just let me get you home!” I shriek, my chest caving at the sight of my car.

I hit the gas. Please, God, just let this be it. Please just help me get him home and let go of him. This must be it. “No!” Devin reaches for the door handle and hurls himself out of the accelerating car. “Devin!”

The tires squeal against the pavement, the rear end of my vehicle swiveling against the sudden force of a stop. I scramble out, my hands plastering against the hot asphalt.

“Are you crazy!” I scream.

Devin ignores me, brushing off the debris from his fall and storms past me as if I’m nothing but a ghost.

A strangled cry breaks from my chapped lips, “Devin, please just let me take you home. You can’t walk all that way!”

I stumble into him, reaching for his hand. Time stops. My feet levitate beneath me. An odd gurgling noise slips from my constricted airway. His fingers curl around my throat, shifting only enough to steal what little oxygen I have left. Devin’s lethal grip instantly locks me into place.

“Leave. Me. Alone. Florence. This is all your fault.” Devin’s eyes are a blank deadly black. The normal blue eyed boy I love is not there. Static begins to cloud my vision just as my back slams into the hard hill of the ditch. Tossed away like a piece of litter by the love of my life.

The woman before me clears her throat, bringing me back to reality. “Mrs. Belcher are you alright?” Her posture is calm but alert as she squares her shoulders in weariness at whatever expression is plastered across my face.

“Yes ma’am. What was the question again?” I flash a shy smile, slipping my mask carefully back into place as she studies me, the ink pen clicking in her hand.

“You don’t have to call me ma’am, Florence. The question was do you blame yourself for any part of your abuse?”

Ana Winslow. Director of Behavioral Mental Health and Mission Oversight for the Greyline Unit. Impeccably dressed and impossible to rattle. I’ve spent a careful amount of time perfecting my performances for her, yet she continues to dig deeper each session.

The mask pulls tight over my skin, still hot with the rage of his image in my mind.

You see, the abuser wears the mask. Hiding behind sweet words and velvet smiles.

But even when it shatters, when the truth finally breaks through, it’s the victim who’s expected to keep theirs on to cover the damage.

I still have a mask, just not the one he intended to give me.

I forged my own through the flames I’ve walked through.

There’s a line from an old song that goes, “if you’re going through hell, keep on going.

” Well, that’s exactly what I did, biting straight through his flimsy plastic.

Every strike of the hammer from Devin meant to damage me only sharpened my teeth in the end.

I’m not a victim. I will never be a victim. I am a survivor.

“Sorry Ana. No, I don’t blame myself,” I lie. I’ve trained hard for this job, and I don’t intend to lose it because of some silly emotional baggage. I slip my hands into my hoodie, digging my nails deep into the palms of my hands to regain control.

Ana’s face softens as she pulls her braids over her shoulder, examining my progress sheet before her.

Then her pen swishes across boxes not visible from my chair.

I wait in the silence, careful to hold my posture still as she makes her decision.

Ana hums, fiddling with the golden cross necklace hanging just between the folds of her white button up.

The director delicately places her evaluation onto the white desk, a tender smile blooming from her lips. “I think you’re ready then.”