Page 13 of Velvet Chains
Alek chuckled. “I guess that’s better than Kieran Callahan.”
“Is it?”
“You do have a thing for the rough and tumble type.”
I laughed. “Don’t let Julian hear you say that.”
Alek rolled his eyes. “You never even liked Julian that much,” he said.
“I married him.”
“Yeah, but because it was the thing to do,” he said. “Not because you wanted to. I have never seen a person more bored at their own wedding.”
He wasn’t wrong. I had spent most of the reception counting ceiling tiles and looking at people’s jewelry.
“In my defense, I was pregnant and everyone else was incredibly drunk.”
“You told me to get drunk!” he said with mock outrage.
“Well,someoneneeded to have fun,” I replied.
He laughed that time. “I get it,” he said. “I mean, I don’t want to get it, but now that I’ve seen the guy in person, I get it. But that can’t be enough, Ruby.”
“It isn’t,” I said. “As soon as he found out about Rosie, something changed. I needed to get him out of there. I needed to…I don’t know.”
The nurse walked in and her eyes widened when she saw me.
“Wait, are you—”
“This is District Attorney Ruby Marquez, yes,” Alek answered for me.
His voice was calm, the kind of calm that knew it was in control, that expected things to happen on its own terms. I wished I could feel that way. Instead, I just sat there, waiting for the nurse’s reaction, watching as she processed the words. The seconds dragged out like hours.
Her curiosity was almost tangible. I could feel it in the quick, darting glance at my scarf, at the place where the bruises were hidden. Emotions surged inside me, a chaotic mix of anger and shame. The kind of feelings I had learned to control, or thought I had.
“Congratulations on your win,” she said gently. “I’m so sorry you’re here today. Can you tell me what’s been going on?”
“A man broke into my house and strangled me,” I said. My voice caught, but I didn’t let it shake. “Last night. I, uh… I think Iwas in shock. My friend came for breakfast and he insisted I get checked out.”
Her expression didn’t change much, but something sharpened around the eyes. Not surprise—she’d probably heard worse—but anger. Quiet. Righteous.
“Thank you for coming in,” she said, her voice soft and certain now. “You did the right thing. A strangulation can be a very big deal. We take it seriously. Would you mind removing your scarf, please?”
I froze. The words hovered between us like a test I hadn’t studied for. My fingers went to the edge of the scarf, but I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Her tone shifted, lower now, careful. “You’re in control here, okay? Take your time.”
That cracked something in me. I untied it slowly, hands trembling—not from fear, but from the knowledge that once it was off, there was no more hiding. The truth would be plain. Ugly. Mine.
She didn’t gasp. But her pen stilled, her eyes lingering just a beat too long on the bruises. That flicker in her face—rage, grief, something hard and feminine—felt louder than a scream.
“Are you having trouble breathing?” she asked quietly, gently. And this time I knew: she didn’t just mean my lungs.
“No,” I said.
The nurse nodded. “Okay. Any pain when you swallow? Or tenderness along your throat?”
“A little,” I admitted. My voice sounded thinner than I meant it to.
