Page 137 of Savage Surrender

He’s never put his hands on me like this.

William Dashwood believes physical violence is a sign of weakness.

The blood in my mouth is scorching hot after so long on the cold floor. My first clear fear is that Bianca is feeling my emotions. Everything I’ve been trying not to send her. The air that never came easily through the sack, the certainty that one of us would stop breathing and I wouldn’t be able to reach him in time. The rope holds my wrists against my back, and when I move my ankles, the knot answers by pulling tighter against bone.

I’ve felt this helpless before, but never this scared. Bianca is somewhere beyond my reach, and the man who taught me to fear his control has just lost it.

I think I hear Owen say my name.

She made it out. She has Freddie. Megan. Winston and his pack. They’ll keep her safe.

The blood from my mouth spreads under my collar, the warmth bringing back a memory.

Coffee.

I’m nineteen, staring through the windshield while the car shudders from the pothole and Bianca catches the styrofoam cup that just jumped out of her hands before the rest of it empties into my lap. My right hand is locked around the wheel. The other hovers over the ruined console as though I can still prevent what’s already happened.

“Oh my God. Did that burn you, Weller? I’m so sorry! Winston is always saying I have butter fingers.”

Her voice is young in my mind.

“Weller?”

Coffee has soaked through the white cotton of my dress shirt. I can feel every place it’s touched my skin beneath the fabric. I should’ve been more prepared. I should keep an extra shirt in the car. At eight thirty, I’ll sit across from my father looking like this. He won’t mention the stain until the meeting is over.

“Are you going to pull over? I think I can make it look less bad.”

I missed the turn toward her school.

“Wells, you’re scaring me a little.”

That gets my foot onto the brake. I signal and turn into the empty lot of a small church. The tires climb the curb and drop back down hard enough to slosh more coffee over the side of the cup.

“Umm, okay.” Bianca looks at the curb, then at me. “Can you talk to me?”

“You’re going to be late.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“You will when they call your mother.”

“Weller, stop.” Her hand stays on the seat belt release. “Were you burned?”

“No.”

“Take your jacket off.”

She unfastens her seat belt and reaches into the glove compartment before I answer. She hasn’t wanted to drive since the fender bender, and Winston has been driving her everywhere. The rest of us haven’t been any better. She texted me before six to ask for a ride because Winston has a dentist appointment today. I rescheduled two conference calls without hesitation.

She finds a stack of napkins and sits back with them crushed in one hand. “Come on. Jacket.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Your mouth is saying one thing and your face is saying another. Let me help you clean up. I feel awful.”

I pull at the knot of my tie. It has tightened, or my fingers aren’t working. After the second attempt, Bianca puts her water bottle between her knees and leans across the console.

“Let me.”