I should have run the second I laid eyes on him four years ago.

But here I am, regretting every move I made since I met him.

I’m so tired.

“Get the fuck up.” A hand wraps around my arm, yanking me to my feet and adding another bruise to his battered canvas.

He shoves me back, and the corner of the kitchen counter hits the small of my back, sending a piercing jolt up my spine. My hand flies out to support myself against the marble. My wrist brace lands in a pool of water, soaking through the thick fabric as I slide along the counter, fingers grazing the edge of the chopping board I was using when Tommy came barreling in.

I’m not a fan of what I was making. If he didn’t enjoy eating my country’s cuisine, I wasn’t allowed to make it. But he likes tonight’s meal, and what he likes, I like.

And I like… I don’t know what I enjoy anymore.

If Dad were here, he’d stand up for me.

The thought lodges a boulder in my throat. I force myself to suppress a sob so I don’t anger Tommy more. Why didn’t I listen when Dad warned me this man meant trouble? It was the only thing we ever argued about. I wish I could apologize to him now. Dad was the only person I had, and I fought him tooth and nail under the misguided pretense that Tommy was different—special. A man of his word, someone who loved me. I fell for his façade.

Nothing is worth the heated floors, indoor swimming pool, or stupid fucking six-car garage filled with vehicles I’m not allowed to touch.

“Do you think I want to come home to find you looking like shit? Huh?”

I keep my gaze averted. Meeting his eyes never bodes well, at least not anymore.

Silent tears stream down my face as a glint catches my eye, and I try to ignore the light reflecting off the silver blade just inches away from my fingers.

I thought if I did the steak just right, my mood would be forgiven. If the roasted sweet potatoes, broccoli, and carrots were seasoned just right, my appearance would be quickly forgotten.

But again, I knew better.

I’m so sorry for disappointing you, Dad.

“I was nice enough to let you have a day off. Maybe I shouldn’t have if you can’t appreciate everything I do for you.”

Do for me? What the fuck do you do for me, Tommy? Because I’d absolutely love to know.

I was given a credit card I’m not allowed to use. If I get groceries, I have to show him the receipt. If I need a dress for an event, his assistant gets it for me. If I want to visit Dad’s memorial, I need permission—and he always says no. If I breathe too loud, I get yelled at. If I blink too much, I’m glared at.

The only thing Tommy has ever done for me is hate every single aspect of my existence.

I stare blankly to the side, the knife’s plastic handle taunting me, orange carrot residue pebbled along the serrated edge.

Speak when spoken to. Bend over when told. Spread my legs when he wants.

He doesn’t want a wife. He wants a servant.

Dad would be disappointed to see what I’ve become.

I clench my jaw, trying to stop my body from trembling.

“Do you know how many girls want to be in your position? I could have my pick from a hundred of them, but I chose you to be my wife. And you’ve been nothing but ungrateful.”

Then why did you do it, Tommy? Was it the brightness in my eyes when you found me fresh from university? Or did you decide I would make the perfect victim when you discovered I had the skills required to elevate your business?

I had dreams, Tommy. Hope. Real talent. I could have made a difference, saved lives. I was meant to soar.

I would have been everything without you.

But you killed me, Thomas Gallagher.

You and your brother, John, buried me alive.

He slaps my cheek, and my head whips to the side as the sound of skin colliding with skin ripples through the plain room. Red blossoms along my cheek, burning a path straight to my still-beating heart. “You would be nothing without me, Kristy.”

I despise hearing those two syllables on his lips.

Kristy.

That name used to hold such fond memories—how my father used to say it, the way the etching of “Misty” gleamed on his bike’s gas tank. Now, I hate it. I never want to hear it again.

“Nothing,” he yells.

Tommy is a piece of shit in an expensive suit. His whole family is—criminals with deep pockets and an even deeper hold on the police. Everyone turns a blind eye to the heinous acts carried out within their enterprise—gang, group, organization, whatever they want to call themselves. The effect is the same.

I could kill Tommy, and I wouldn’t shed a tear. His entire family could drop dead at my feet, and I wouldn’t bat an eye. They’re all monsters, the worst dregs of society, hidden behind diamonds and gold.

My lips twitch, and I have to fight back a sneer. I just wanted to mourn my dad today. Was that really too much to ask?

His fingers wrap around my throat, cutting off my oxygen. Pain swells around my neck, worse where his skin touches mine. My flesh is still raw from when he did this two nights ago. It pales in comparison to the rest of my injuries.

I don’t struggle or fight. He prefers it when I do. The last thing I want is to bring him more pleasure from my suffering.

My watery stare flicks up to his putrid green eyes. His pupils are blown out, the corners of his eyes are creased. His mouth is curled down. There’s a rosy tint to his tanned cheeks. The tendons in his neck strain, but not from exertion.

I know what will happen next. It’s what always happens when Tommy looks at me this way. He’ll turn me around and take me. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to sit tomorrow.

I hate him.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

God, I fucking hate him.

Dots scatter across my vision, everything going blurry. I sputter and cough despite how hard I try to hide my desperation for air. Both my hands hit the counter behind me, flailing around for some semblance of reprieve, as if touching stone might stop my lungs from burning. Agonizing pain slices up the arm he injured earlier. My braced hand catches on an object, and the chopping board clatters to the floor, the vegetables a rainbow mess across sparkling marble.

Tommy doesn’t react, too lost to whatever sick fantasy is playing out in his head. My stomach drops like a boulder in a landslide.

I’d rather die than live through this again.

He and his family have taken so much from me when I’ve given them everything. All they’ve left is a faint glimmer of the person I was before he swept me off my feet and made me feel like a princess, only to then throw me in the dungeons, a crown of poisoned thorns on my head.

His heated breath skitters across my skin, sticky and cloying. He shoves my sweats down my legs before he fumbles with his belt, undoing his zip. “No one will love you like I do.”

I hold his stare as I rasp, “Thank God.”

His eyes widen when I raise my arm. Scarlet bursts from his skin, crimson dots splatter onto my top and part of his favorite meal.

Oxygen slams into my lungs, making my knees buckle. Hot tears stream down my face as I watch the man who made me believe the devil exists stumble back, gripping the knife protruding from his neck. My hand trembles in my wrist brace as I relive the feel of skin and tendon parting under the blade.

“You were always pathetic,” I croak, voice raw, body shaking. Fury has found a home in my heart. I want to scream. Riot. Take the knife out just to plunge it into him ten more times.

But I’m better than that. Stronger. Smarter. Violent men aren’t violent because they lost their temper—they’re violent because they know they can get away with it. If it was an issue of emotional control, his entire family would have met his fists as frequently as I do.