Page 1 of Keeper of Talon Mountain
PROLOGUE
MARA
Phoenix, Arizona
Three Years Ago
The bruise on my cheek has faded to yellow-green, barely visible under makeup, but I can still feel where Derek's fist connected with my face. Fourth time this month. Or is it the fifth? I've stopped keeping count.
"You're not wearing that." Derek's voice cuts through the bathroom as I'm getting ready for work. He's leaning against the doorframe, coffee in hand, looking like any other successful real estate developer starting his day. Handsome. Put-together. The kind of man my friends told me I was lucky to have.
I look down at my blouse and slacks. Professional. Conservative. Nothing he could possibly object to. "What's wrong with it?"
"The blouse is too tight. You’re trying to get attention from the guys at your office?"
The blouse isn't tight. It's the same one I've worn dozens of times. But I've learned that logic doesn't matter when Derek's in this mood. "I'll change."
"You do that." He takes a sip of coffee, watching me with those cold blue eyes that used to make my heart race. Now they just make my stomach clench. "And Mara? Don't make me wait. You know how I feel about being late."
I change into a looser sweater, my hands shaking as I button it. This is the pattern now—constant criticism, escalating control, violence that comes in waves followed by apologies and promises it won't happen again. Last week, he threw a glass that shattered inches from my head. Yesterday, he grabbed my wrist so hard I can still see the finger-shaped bruises circling my forearm.
I need to leave. I know I need to leave. But Derek controls everything—the bank accounts, the lease on our apartment, even my phone plan. And he's made it clear what will happen if I try to go. "You think you can just walk away from me? I'll find you. I always find what belongs to me."
That night, I work late at the accounting firm where I've been employed for two years. Not because I want to, but because staying away from the apartment means a few more hours of peace. My desk overlooks the parking lot, and through the window, I can see Derek's Mercedes parked under a streetlight. He's waiting for me. Checking up on me. Making sure I'm really here and not somewhere I shouldn't be.
My phone buzzes with a text:Don't think I don't know you're avoiding me. Get your ass home. Now.
I gather my things with hands that won't stop trembling. This is my life now—constant fear, walking on eggshells, wondering which version of Derek I'll face when I walk through the door. The charming one who brings flowers and takes me to expensive restaurants? Or the monster who corners me in the kitchen and tells me I'm worthless, stupid, lucky he even bothers with someone as pathetic as me?
The parking lot is dark except for scattered lights. Derek's car is gone now, but I know he's already home, waiting. I unlock my car and slide behind the wheel, and that's when I see the envelope on my passenger seat.
My blood runs cold. He was in my car. He has a key to my car.
With shaking hands, I open the envelope. Inside is a single photograph—me, walking out of a coffee shop during my lunch break, talking to a male coworker. Across the image, Derek has written in red marker:Who is he?
That's when I know. I have to leave tonight. Not next week, not when I've saved enough money, not when I have a better plan. Tonight. Because next time, Derek might not stop at bruises.
I drive home on autopilot, my mind racing through possibilities. I have a little over a thousand dollars in cash hidden in a tampon box under the bathroom sink—money I've been squirreling away fifty dollars at a time whenever I could. It's not much, but it's something. My friend Suzanne in Tucson owes me a favor. If I can make it there...
Derek is waiting in the living room when I walk in. The apartment is too quiet.
"Who is he?" His voice is calm, which is somehow worse than when he yells.
"My coworker. We were discussing a client file."
"You're lying." He stands, and I watch him transform from man to monster in the space of a breath. "You think I'm stupid? You think I don't see the way you look at other men?"
"Derek, I'm not...”
The backhand comes so fast I don't have time to dodge. Pain explodes across my face, and I taste blood. Then his hands are on my throat, slamming me against the wall, and I can't breathe, can't think, can only claw at his wrists while black spots dance in my vision.
"You're mine," he hisses, his face inches from mine. "Mine. Say it."
I can't say anything. Can't breathe. The world is going dark.
He releases me suddenly, and I collapse to the floor, gasping and choking. "Clean yourself up," he says, his voice cold and flat. "You look pathetic."
He walks to the bedroom and closes the door.
