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She sighed, the long-suffering sound a familiar one. As if it was all just too much.

Honestly, I didn’t blame her. It was too much. My father was too much, and his political career was sure as shit too much.

Way, way too much.

“Sorry,” I added. “I don’t mean to put this on you.”

“I know, dear. But you know how your father is.”

Why do you stay with him? I wanted to scream.

But I’d already asked her that once, early in high school.

My mother had come down the stairs in a formal gown for some fancy fundraising event. She’d looked gorgeous as usual, not a hair out of place from its meticulous twist.

My father had calmly looked across the foyer at her and asked when was the last time she’d “bothered to see a hairdresser.”

If he’d bothered to pay any attention at all to his wife, he would have known she had a team of hair and makeup people who came in every time she was going to be photographed at an important event. Siddell and Joy had been there all afternoon, helping Mom get ready.

But instead of telling him so, instead of arguing at all, his words had frozen my mother in her tracks—eyes wide and makeup perfect—right there on the steps.

My father had walked out the door without another word, expecting her to follow.

So I’d turned to her and asked her the question. Why do you stay with him?

She’d looked through me, a suddenly vacant smile on her face. “Don’t be out too late, darling. Remember you have training in the morning.” She’d kissed my cheek and walked out the door, exactly as he’d expected.

Nothing had changed since then.

“Yeah,” I sighed into the phone as I began walking again to the dorm. “Yeah, I know how he is, Mom.”

“We’ll see you next weekend, honey,” she said before ending the call.

I stood there next to the wide, columned expanse of the library, staring down at my phone with a familiar mix of frustration and disappointment. Maybe not frustration. That was too soft. Suppressed rage.

Disgust at her not modeling better behavior for me. Not taking a stand against him. That she… we… I deserved better.

If only she’d taken a stand. Then maybe I could…

The thought petered out while a voice in my head, getting louder and louder these days, insisted that I was an adult. Capable of taking my own stand. And why, exactly, hadn’t I done that yet?

I let out a laugh I didn’t feel as I pushed off the brick wall I’d been leaning against and continued my walk to Whitman. The only time I’d ever truly rebelled was when my father had forced my silence about the bar fight, and I’d gone out and gotten a tattoo.

Not that I’d ever been brave enough to let him see it. He found tattoos to be low-class. Trashy. “Regretful” was the term he’d use if pressed by anyone other than family. But I’d been working on a sketch since that night early in high school when I realized my mother would rather be beautiful and caged than wild and free.

And inking it permanently into my skin had felt like taking one small step into my own wild freedom.

What a joke.

The excitement I’d felt before, about seeing Vaughn and possibly getting up to something with him in bed, was gone. I trudged back and blew out a grateful breath when the room was empty. Then I kicked off my shoes, tossed down my backpack, and face-planted onto the bed.

I must have fallen asleep because I woke up sometime later to the feel of a hot, wet mouth on my cock.

“Holy fuck,” I croaked, moving my hands into Vaughn’s thick hair. “Fuck yes. Fuck.”

He glanced up at me, eyes dancing and lips quirked up. “That a yes?”

“Yes, I said yes. Yes. Don’t fucking stop,” I choked as he lowered back down over my cock and I felt the back of his throat against the tip. Holy fucking fuck.