She was a pathetic complainy pants.
Mostly because she had to roll out of bed, slap on some makeup and a nice shirt. Her PJ shorts could remain because they’d be hidden beneath the camera.
But she still had to roll out of bed and put makeup on and—
Roll.
Roll.
Like Asher had rolled her last night.
Asher—
Gasping, she did some unassisted rolling—and nearly succeeded in strangling herself with that charging cord in the process. “Crap,” she muttered, yanking at it as she flipped over like a freaking fish, squirming until she got a good look at the other half of the bed.
Empty.
Well, thank God for that, considering all of her fish-flopping gracefulness.
Mel slumped back against the pillows, heart racing, mind spinning, rage a cool boil in the pit of her stomach.
He’d barged into her apartment at three forty-six in the morning.
He’d manhandled her.
He’d shoved her into bed and—and he’d held her.
Oh, the humanity.
She ground her teeth together, shoved down the anger, swallowed the bile burning the back of her throat.
Broken. Damaged.
I definitely don’t want to go on a date with you.
A pulse of pain in her temple.
“Crap,” she muttered again, rubbing the ache before she sat up, tossed the blankets back. A shower. Makeup. Get dressed. Survive that meeting taking place at the crack of dawn.
Shifting to the side, pushing up from the edge of the mattress—
Nearly eating shit because the cord was still ridiculously long. Dumb, yeah? But she liked to charge in bed, no matter the position…and don’t come at her with that battery fire risk stuff. Mel had enough to worry about without that floating through her mind.
A yank pulled the cord free of her phone and she yeeted the charging cable aside.
Then took a breath.
Then…did something that was the equivalent of her pretending this was fine, she was fine, everything was fine—she marched into the bathroom and cranked on the shower.
Of course, that was fine as in freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional.
Yup.
Case in point?
Her bending over the sink, nearly hyperventilating as she clenched at the counter.
He’d seen her broken. Again.
He’d held the pieces of her together. Again.
He’d left before she woke up. Again.
Head still hanging, she lifted her eyes, stared at her reflection. “Br-breathe, M-Mel.” Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Ho—
“Good,” she whispered. “Good, Mel.”
Yeah, she was talking to herself.
But sometimes she thought that inner monologue, talking herself through her neurosis, her therapist’s voice echoing in her head, was the only thing that got her through what her life was now.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Stripping down, forcing herself to not avoid the reflection of her naked body in the mirror, trying to see it like she used to. Something sort of neutral with a few parts she liked—the color of her skin, the fall of her breasts, the flare of her hips—and some she didn’t—the jiggling curve of her belly, the way her jaw seemed to be leaning toward double chin, her nose. She saw all of that right then, but she also saw more.
The faint pink scar on her ribs where his boot had connected.
Another near her collarbone.
Another on her ankle.
The crisscrossing white marks on the back of one hand.
Four markings, so small the average person probably wouldn’t see them.
But she did. Because they spoke to her. Told her that even though that night might fade, the choking nightmare might pale, her scars would always be there.
She would always be marked.
So, she stared at her reflection and she tried to find the beauty, the things she liked—or at the very least, she tried to find the general neutrality she used to have.
Instead…loathing.
“Crap,” she whispered, giving in and looking away, eyes burning, stomach churning.
She bent over the sink again, retching.
But there wasn’t anything to lose, so she just ended up with sore muscles in her stomach, her shoulders, her neck.
Then she got in the shower.
Six
Ash
“Hi, baby,” his mom said as he walked into the kitchen.
He’d let himself into her house, as always. Her rule was that no matter where she lived, her kids were always welcome. That meant they all had a key and the code to the garage door, and there was the expectation that they didn’t need to knock.
So, it was Sunday Dinner.
It had been over a week since he’d spent the night in Mel’s bed, holding her, breathing in the scent of her hair, wanting her, but knowing there was no way that she was ready for him.
“Hi, Mom.” He bent so she could buss him on the cheek.
Also, standard.
Instinctual.
His mom had given birth to seven kids, but not one of them had lacked for attention or physical affection or love.
“My baby is looking handsome,” she said lightly, brushing her fingers over his beard, his shoulders, his chest.
He chuckled, knowing what she was getting at. “It’s just a new shirt, Mom.”
The edges of her mouth turned up. “And I’m just saying, whoever bought it for you has good taste.”
He grinned at her. “You bought it for me.”
“Like I said”—she buffed her knuckles on her shoulder—“good taste.”
More laughter bubbling up in his chest, but he just bent, kissed the top of her head, and asked, “What can I do?” His mom, mother of eight kids and intimately aware of how much work that took, immediately took advantage of his offer, putting him to work setting the table and opening the wine and then making sure everyone had something to drink. His siblings arrived—and once they had drinks in hands—each of them was put to use in their own various ways.
Their own usual assignments.
Rafe, their close friend, adopted brother (and even though he was now with their sister), was an accepted member of the Hutchins family. Mostly because Rafe eaten at their kitchen table and spent more nights at Ash’s house growing up than he had at his own family’s. His job revolved around peeling and dicing vegetables.
Fine with him.
Ash was allergic to cooking.
Rafe did better, and Ash was glad he was around, even if it had been rough there for a minute, when they had found out that Rafe was—fucking hell—was with Cor in a way that was not brotherly. Ash had been ready to commit murder—even if before then, he’d loved Rafe like a brother. But that had only lasted, literally, about a minute.
First, Cora was a grown woman who could take care of herself.
Second, Rafe was more protective of his sister than any of the rest of them could be.
It was win-win. Rafe would make sure she was safe and happy, and Ash didn’t get in trouble for trying to meddle in Cora’s life.
He’d still gut the fucker if he hurt her, but Rafe was doing all right.
So…he could live. For the moment.
Smiling, Ash eyed glasses with laser-like focus, making sure everyone’s cups were full.
Because if he was going to do something, he was going to do it right.