“Enough!” He slams his hand on the table in a way that doesn’t draw notice from anyone else. But my body goes rigid. Before my eyes, he transforms. His entire body ripples with tension, his eyes flashing. “And you were always a liar, Hannah,” he growls. “That’s why Mom left you. Why Dad married some stupid bitch rather than take care of you. Why you caused every problem that ever plagued this family. You’re a fucking selfish, stupid, ungrateful little liar. No one ever wanted you but me. No one ever gave a shit about you but me.”
I look down at the table, biting my lip so hard I taste blood. But surprisingly? I don’t feel anything.
“Am I wrong?” he demands. “Say it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Good.” His voice softens, and he sits back. “I want you to move back in. Tonight. I’ll pay out the rest of your lease—”
“No.”
He blinks. “What did you say?”
Nothing like always. But my burning lips contradict the instincts I’ve spent years honing to an art form. Silence. Endurance. Passive, obedient Hannah.
“It’s not like you didn’t pick one of the most dangerous fucking neighborhoods to live in,” Branden snaps. In frustration, he snatches a neatly folded napkin from the table and unfurls it. “I’ve warned you, Hannah. Look, I don’t know if you’re just trying to provoke me or what. Moving into the center of territory owned by the fucking triad? Do you know what happens around here? I’ll tell you. Murder, extortion, prostitution, and worse. This place is a fucking shithole and…” He releases a heavy sigh and picks up the menu resting on his side of the table as if hunting for a distraction. His ruse is slipping, his voice far too loud. Someone from the next table over glances in our direction, and he exhales, forcing some of the tension from his posture. “You know you can always come home, don’t you?”
Home. That word affects me more strongly than I would have thought, and I shift on my side of the bench, curling my toes in their sandals.
“I know,” I concede in a whisper, “but we’ve talked about this. I need to try living on my own. I know it’s not ideal, but…” I bite my lip, keeping one more secret inside. Ironically, he is the only reason I found my apartment, renting at a steal. I’d noticed the torn page of rental listings on the kitchen table while living in his house, scattered amongst a bunch of case files on one of the rare nights he’d been too tired to lock them all away.
“Hannah?”
“I’m fine,” I choke out.
“Fine,” he echoes ominously while dragging his finger down the list of menu items. “But you deserve to be safe. What happened at the shop was the last straw. I’ve already called your landlord.”
I want to be upset. Indignant…
I’m exhausted.
I’m scared.
“I don’t—”
“Hello.” A new waitress has appeared to take our order. With her eyes downcast, she disappears and returns with our food only a few minutes later. “It’s on the house,” she murmurs before retreating again.
Branden just grunts and snatches a fork. “This fucking place… Anyway, I’ve already had Kaitlin fix up your room. You can move in tomorrow—”
“Branden.”
“Don’t.” He looks up sharply, his nostrils flaring, his neck that alarming shade of red. “I let you carry on with this bullshit for long enough. Coming all the way here was one thing, but now? You’re pushing me, Hannah. You’re fucking pushing me—again.”
I inhale and clasp my hands together to disguise how they shake. “I’m sorry—”
“Sorry?” His gaze hardens, and I have to fumble for my bag as a woman walking past eyes my shaking fingers. For once, Branden is too fixated on me to care how he looks or sounds. Unrestrained, his voice deepens, touching on a growl. “You remember what happens when you act selfish, Hannah? The trouble you cause? What you make me do?”
A chill washes over me. I remember.
Memories too horrific to write down, at least in explicit terms. Instead, they lurk in prose and symbolism, caged in unsaid meaning. Freedom’s price paid with the blood of another…
That phrase, in particular, weighs down one page in my journal. I’m holding it now, balancing my bag on my lap, but the thick pages don’t impart the same sense of comfort I’m used to finding. I have to grasp for something else, nestled at the very bottom of the knitted material. Something small and firm sporting a roaring creature emblazoned on its