Page 46 of No Good Fight

But I know something Preston doesn’t. I know that Ryder’s truck has been going by my apartment for a few weeks late at night. Even if I don’t want to talk to him, or anyone, about it. Ryder might know where I am.

I just need to hold on until he gets here.

Or figure out how to get his attention without Preston hurting me first.

I slide my laptop into my bag with hands that don’t feel steady enough to belong to me. “I said move.”

Instead, he rests one arm along the back of the booth like he’s settling in. “I saw the firefighter, Alexandra. You used to have better taste.”

The room narrows as my heart rate accelerates to an almost painful staccato.

Preston watches my face, pleased when he finds whatever reaction he wanted. “Ryder, right? Josh’s friend. He always looked at you like he wanted you.”

“Stop.”

“He was obvious, even back then.” Preston tilts his head, studying me as if I’m still something he can take apart. “You pretended not to notice, but you liked it, like the whore you used to be. The attention. The big protective routine that he used to put on in order to make you trust him. I used to wonder if you picked fights with me hoping he’d rescue you. You just wanted him to make you his whore the whole time, didn’t you?”

My stomach turns.

“That’s not true.”

I don’t know why the words leave my lips. Can’t understand why I feel the need to defend myself to the man who hit me.

I need to escape. But he spent years…years manipulating me and beating me into submission, and that doesn’t just go away because I escaped him.

“No?” His voice stays pleasant, which makes all of this so much worse. “Then why is he spending time with you now? Fixing your windows. Walking you to doors. Standing in parking lots with his hands all over you.” He practically spits at me. “He’s touching you, and you don’t belong to him.”

My mouth goes dry.

He saw us in Mason Ridge. Which means that Ryder isn’t the only one following me.

Preston’s smile fades into something flatter and uglier. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? Running to another man so you can pretend you’re not mine?”

“I’m not yours.”

His eyes harden.

For one second, the mask slips far enough that I see the man from the photograph. The one who smiled for cameras and left bruises where fabric covered every inch of skin. The one who taught me the cost of living my life any way other than what he deemed acceptable.

The server appears in my peripheral vision with the drink I didn’t want, and Preston’s face resets before she reaches the table. By the time she steps up next to me, he’s the image of perfection.

“Thanks,” he says warmly, taking the glass like we’re on a date and not trapped in my personal nightmare. “We’re good for now.”

I look at her. I open my mouth to ask her for help. To tell her that he’s not welcome at my table.

Nothing comes out.

She hesitates for half a second, eyes moving between us. “You sure?”

Preston’s foot brushes mine beneath the table.

A warning.

I pull my foot back so hard my knee hits the underside of the booth. “I’m sure I’m leaving. He can take care of the last drink, but I’ve got the rest.” I hand over two bills from my bag and try to convey what I’m feeling in my eyes.

The server’s expression changes, flicking between the two of us hard enough that I feel the tension building.

Good.