Page 176 of Beautiful Scars

It’s amazing how quickly a violent man can make an honest woman descend into a liar. I don’t believe it can be fixed anymore. Not after we pulled up outside what I thought was a community center, and he came out cradling Meisie’s daughter in his arms. Not after he told me what he intended to do with her.

There’s no helping Cole now. Certainly not from me. Or his brother.

He needs to be committed.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No. We don’t need to fix anything. You just need to do what you’re told. Now be a good girl and get it done.”

He jerks my head toward the table and when I back away from it, his hand comes around the back of my neck. My necklace wraps around his fingers, gentle so as not to snap it, and then he twists.

Tighter and tighter.

He gave me the necklace as a present on our third date.

Came in a fancy box. Not cheap crap.

And now I wish it was, so the thing would snap instead of garroting me.

He tries to force my head down, but I won’t do it. I won’t lethimdo it.

I dig my nails into his hand as hard as I can.

Cole drops the necklace, but threads his fingers straight into my hair and drags me back until I’m arching beneath him.

Then he slaps me. Hard. Across my cheek.

The shock of it steals my breath. Just for a second.

We’ve fought before. But not like this.

I’m not letting him do this. Not to me, and not to the little girl upstairs who has nothing to do with any of this.

My nails go for his face. His eyes. Ears. Anything I can latch on to.

He huffs as he tries to grab me. When he lets go of my hair I fall to the floor, and I barely hit the wood before I’m scrambling away from him.

I’ll go to my bedroom. Try to push the bed over the door. Barrage me and Maddie inside.

But what if I can’t? What if I’m too slow? I can’t risk it.

Bathroom.

I’m halfway up the stairs when he grabs my leg and drags me back down, the carpet burning my side as my shirt rides up. I start to cry out but it turns into a pathetic whimper. I can’t let her hear this. See this. It wouldn’t stop him. I bite my tongue. Keep my lips pressed closed.

He makes quick work of the rest of the shirt, pulling it over my head and not even bothering to get it off my arms.

My whimpers turn to sobs. Begs that come out as whispers. He’s not listening.

The corner of the step digs into my spine as he presses down against me. Another step against my neck when his hand grips my throat.

I try to turn my cheek so he won’t notice the tears. So I can distance myself. Zone out. But he won’t let me. His grip is solid. His fingers tugging at my jeans.

I’ve never felt this small in my life before. This useless. He’s too big. Too strong.

It’s that realization that causes me to break.

The worst kind of tears don’t come out. The worst tears comein. In huge, gasping, choking breaths. Like someone’s punching you in the gut. I can’t control myself. I can’t stop it.

I’m vaguely aware of the hand slipping from my neck.