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“He threw his plate of pot roast across the kitchen, and it smashed against the wall,” she says, staring into the kitchen as if she’s reliving the moment. “I got up and ran into the bedroom and locked the door, desperate to get my cell phone. He jerked the door off the hinges.” She stills, her palm sweating against mine. “I remember thinking he looked like the Hulk when he barged in with his veins sticking out and muscles flexed. He plucked my phone from my hand and sent it sailing into the hallway before shoving me on the bed.”

Breathe, Miller.

“He screamed that I was manipulating him,” she says, with a strange, distant expression on her face. “That I was pushing him so he’d leave me, and I could take half of everything in the divorce. He accused me of sleeping with other men at the store. Called me a whore. A slut. Then he hovered over me with this sick look on his face and told me that he’d been messing with my birth control pills, trying to knock me up.”

I release her hand before I squeeze it too tightly.

This asshole wasn’t just trying to get her pregnant. He was trying to ensure she could never leave him.

My stomach churns wildly.

Hell, he weaponized everything against her.

It’s no surprise that Poppy has fought like hell to keep her independence. To keep our friends-with-benefits boundaries clean. To keep me out.

I look at her, emotion burning my nose.

But she’s starting to let me into places she’s let no one else in since Jordan.

The realization hits me hard, and I want to hold her, to kiss her, to promise to protect her always. But there’s more to this story. And with every bit she shares, I can see the small changes. Her shoulders are easing. She clutches the blanket on her lap a little less tightly. Her voice is slightly less pinched.

And that’s what’s important.

“I pushed him,” she says, “trying to get him off me. And he hit me so hard in the stomach that I thought I was going to die. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t get enough air to make the sound. Somehow, his son woke up anyway, and Jordan went to settle him back down.” She swallows. “I got to my knees and crawled into the hallway and called my daddy.”

Tears flow like rivers, and I can’t help myself anymore. I pull her back onto my lap, and she lets me, almost like she needs it as much as I do.

“I couldn’t talk,” she says, hiccuping a sob. “But somehow, he knew. And he said he’d be right there. He made the forty-five-minute drive in twenty.”

I wipe a tear from my eyes, wishing I could’ve met her father. She needed him, and he came, no questions asked. Just like my dad would’ve done. Just like Branch would do. Just like I would do in a heartbeat.

“I locked myself in the bathroom by his son’s room because I knew that was the room he’d mess with me the least,” she says. “And when I heard the gravel crunch outside, I climbed through the window to get outside.”

My God.

“Jordan beat me out there,” she says, crying. “They got into a fistfight, and a neighbor called the cops. Jordan told the officers that Dad showed up and attacked him, and to the neighbors, that’s what it looked like happened, too. Somehow, and I don’t remember how, Jordan got me aside and told me that if I pressed charges, he’d do the same and ruin my dad’s life. And I was nineteen and believed that. But he said that if I left and never came back, he’d let it go.” She shrugs. “So I did. I left everything there, got in Dad’s truck, and went home.”

“You did what you had to do—what you thought was right. That took a lot of courage, Pop.”

“I promised myself that night that I would never, ever get into that situation again.” She looks up at me with a watery gaze. “Because I lost more than my freedom and who I was as a person. I lost confidence in my own judgment. I thought he loved me. I believed him. And I’ve been terrified of being wrong ever since.”

I wipe her cheeks again before kissing her forehead.

Now it all makes perfect sense. She hasn’t been rejecting me. She’s been protecting herself from her own decisions … just in case.

“It was really easy until I met you,” she says, staring into my eyes. “No one else got close enough to matter. But you,” she says, poking me in the chest and grinning, “you were different from the start. I was drawn to you immediately. I felt safe with you. You were this big, funny, powerful man, but when I’m with you, I feel … free. Free to say no and to be chaotic and change my mind a million times.” Her bottom lip quivers. “When I’m with you, I feel loved.”

Oh fuck.

My chest tightens so fiercely that I can barely breathe.

She feels loved.

I sigh, holding her face in my hands.

All this time, I’ve wondered if she understood me—that everything I did was because she was special to me. Because I loved her. And she did. She knew.

I brush my thumbs over her cheeks. “Good answer,” I say, my voice breaking. “Because you are, Poppy Quinn. You are loved so fucking much.”