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His hand slides up my spine, fastening onto the back of my neck, and I groan into the pillow.

“You scared me,” he says again, and his pace quickens. “You don’t get to do that to me. Say you scared me, say it.”

Thrust.

“I scared you.”

Thrust.

“Again.”

Thrust.

“I scared you.”

Thrust.

“That’s it,” he says. “Take it.”

His pace doesn’t let up, each snap of his hips pushing me into the mattress. I grip the sheets as the headboard hits the wall.

“Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

His hand moves to the front of my throat.

“Stay with me,” he whispers against my ear. “Don’t disappear on me again.”

He pulls me back against him again, my back to his chest, as he squeezes my throat harder. Brawley shows me how much he cares, in the way only we know how. My vision blurs, and my whole body tightens around him. When I tip over the edge, he is right behind me, my name on his lips, his grip tight enough that it’s all I feel.

Once he pulls out, I roll over onto my back, but Brawley remains above me and presses his forehead to mine. “Don’t do that to me again. I hate not knowing where you are.”

“Microchip me,” I say, and his brow furrows.

“You’re not a fucking dog, Vero.”

I smirk at him. “No shit, but then you’d always know where I am.”

He rolls us sideways and pulls me against him. I know he won’t microchip me, though there are a few people here who will. I never want him to be scared again about not being able to find me.

Chapter Three

Kayla

Working every night is the only thing that has kept me sane. That night keeps running through my head, and I try to figure out if there were any signs I missed that things were going to escalate. Though I remind myself that none of this is on me, I am programmed to believe that I could have stopped it.

Rogue bounces toward me at the end of my shift and leans against the bar. “You’re off until next week.”

I open my mouth to argue that I can’t afford a week off; she knows that.

She holds up a finger. “This is non-negotiable. I could have fired you, but I didn’t.”

I nod. How can I argue with that? “I know, and I am thankful.”

“You’ve been running on fumes for days—I can see it on your face. Whether you like it or not, you need time to work through whatever it is you’re going through.”

“I’m fine,” I protest, but she narrows her eyes.

“I’ve known you for three years, and you are not fine, Kayla. Go home and sleep for a week if that’s what it takes. But you are not to step foot back in this bar for seven days, or I will be forced to let you go.”