Page 79 of Fool Moon First Aid

Yeah, nope. I’m so out of here.

I jerk back, managing to slip my chin out of his viselike hold. “You know what? I’m done. Officially checking out.” There’s zero reason for me to stick around and endure abuse. Playing nice for my dad is one thing, but this is something else entirely.

Elijah’s laugh echoes around the room, each chuckle laced with enough venom to make my heart stutter. My stomach feels like it’s hosting a butterfly knife fight—all sharp edges and fluttering wings.

“You think you’re done?” he questions.

He grabs me, his fingers clamping around my neck with a shake that jostles my head. He pulls me up, and I strain against the discomfort, battling the urge to give in to lessen the pain. Instead, I summon all my will, glaring daggers at him and secretly hoping for Ethan to come bursting in and give Elijah a taste of his own medicine.

The thought almost makes me crack a smile. Almost.

“I am done,” I tell him, loading my words with as much spite as I can muster.

His response is a slow, eerie smile as he leans down, invading my personal space but stopping just short of touching me. “Ava,” he sneers, and I feel the insult in my name, “getting you here was the only hurdle, and you just waltzed right in.”

That’s when it hits me—I’ve been played by my own dad. I trusted him, gave him the benefit of the doubt, and thought he had my back… What a cruel joke.

It was all a big, fat lie.

“There it is,” Elijah says contemplatively as he tightens his grip and practically hauls me out of my seat. “That realization dawning on you—it’s priceless.”

I do the only thing I can think of—I spit right in his smug face. When he doesn’t immediately react, panic flares up, bright and hot. Not many people tolerate that kind of disrespect.

Okay, maybe just the one type—sociopaths.

He calmly wipes my spit off his face, and then, without warning, he forces his fingers into my mouth. The pain is sharp and unexpected, and tears spring into my eyes.

“If you’re going to act like a brat,” he hisses, “then I’ll treat you like one, Ava.” His voice drips with a malice that sends shivers down my spine. “Think about what you just did. This is your one and only chance to reconsider your actions.”

His fingers press down, making speech an impossibility, his grip on my neck unyielding. All I can manage is a glare that I hope conveys a clear message.

I can’t wait to watch Ethan rip you to shreds, I seethe silently.

Too much rebellion courses through me, but for now, I shove it down. Survival first, smart mouth later.

“Have you thought about your actions, Ava?” he mocks, emphasizing my name as if he’s admonishing a misbehaving child. It’s clear he thinks he’s schooling me, but inside, where it counts, I’m taking notes and biding my time. This isn’t the end. Elijah may think he’s in control, but I won’t give up.

He hums beneath his breath, an unsettling melody given the gravity of his actions. “I don’t think you’ve fully grasped the situation,” he says, releasing his grip so suddenly that I stagger backward into the chair, every bruise a reminder of their existence. “What kind of punishment do you deem appropriate, Ava?”

Punishment?

Despite the fear gnawing at my insides, a sneer forms on my lips. Leveraging my good leg, I rise, facing him with all the defiance I can muster. Elijah might tower over me, but he lacks the formidable presence of my wolves, both in height and build. “I’m not a child, Elijah. Your right to touch, let alone punish me, is nonexistent.”

“You seem to misunderstand your position, Ava,” he counters, his tone dripping with condescension, as if addressing someone detached from reality. “You were bought and paid for the moment you stepped into this trap.” He leans in, and his scent—a mix of spice and danger—fills my senses, momentarily paralyzing me. “Once we’re in the dining room, your father will officiate our union. You belong to me.”

In an instant, he draws me closer, forcing a kiss that I neither invite nor return. Shock courses through me, but survival instinct prevails, and I knee him squarely in the groin. His cry of pain is a fleeting victory as I shove him away, watching him fall. The coffee table overturns in the process, spilling my drink over him—an accidental yet fitting retribution.

Run, Ava.

With my injuries, running isn’t an option. Hobbling toward the door as swiftly as I can manage, I clutch my phone through my purse like a beacon of hope. My breaths are quick and shallow—a silent echo of the panic coursing through me.

My escape is cut short, though, as Elijah grips my hair, pulling me back to the ground with a force that reignites every ache. He looms over me, a snarl distorting his features. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Screw you,” I spit out, the words laced with defiance as he gears up for another strike. With a desperate kick from my cast, I manage to unbalance him, then roll away as he stumbles, the sound of glasses clattering from the bar cart punctuating his fall.

“You bitch,” he seethes, bouncing back with a speed that sends a fresh wave of terror through me. I’m struggling to move, to breathe, when he’s on me again, his weight pinning me down as he strikes my face. The taste of blood fills my mouth, my head hits the hardwood, and I’m acutely aware of every bruise throbbing beneath my skin.

“I love watching you bleed,” he whispers with an unsettling softness to his voice. He traces the blood on my lip with a grotesque fascination, then he hits me again. My vision swims, my head lolls, and a creeping numbness begins to edge in.

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