Page 3 of When Love Found Us
What is he doing here? He shouldn’t be home. Not yet.
I haul the duffel up, muscles straining against the ache and urgency flooding through me. Trembling fingers shove the window open, the old frame groaning in protest. The warm night air brushes against my skin, thick and humid, grounding me in the reality of what I’m about to do.
One leg over the sill. Then the other.
“Henrietta, I know you’re in there. Open the fucking door.”
The handle rattles hard, violently—metal clanging against metal, a brutal warning of his anger, his impatience. Another jolt, harder this time. He’s done waiting.
My pulse spikes. There’s no turning back.
I shove the duffel through the window and follow, hitting the ground with a jarring thud. My knees absorb the impact, but the weight of the bag yanks me forward. I catch myself, breath coming fast and uneven as I press low to the earth. The scent of damp soil clings to the air, thick and heady, but it does nothing to steady me.
Inside, a loud thud—a fist slamming against the door. Then his voice, loud and seething.
“Henrietta, I swear you’re going to pay for this.”
Inside, the pounding at the door grows louder, more furious. But I don’t dare glance back.
The car I arranged waits several houses away, engine idling softly. I sprint toward it, bag bouncing painfully against my hip. My breath catches as I yank open the passenger door, startling the driver.
“Ms. Owens?”
Now I’m Silvie Owens, and if that doesn’t work, I have a few other names to spare. Hopefully he won’t find me.
“Just drive . . .” It was supposed to be the bus stop, but Winston is here, and he might look there first. He’ll find me. I slide into the seat, thoughts racing wildly. The car is booked under another name, which is anonymous enough. No one saw where I came from. Nobody will know where I’m going—at least, not yet.
“Yes, but where am I going?”
“Maryland,” I say abruptly. “Head toward Maryland.” My voice quivers, but my grip tightens fiercely on the bag, as though clinging to this new life will make it real.
As the car accelerates, leaving the neighborhood behind, I risk one final glance at the neighborhood. Towering windows glow with deceptive warmth, a facade promising a happiness I’ve never felt. A place filled with wealth, power, and the absolute control of assholes who think we’re objects and not people. The house that trapped my silence, the doors that kept me locked away, the floors that absorbed my quiet desperation.
Pain pulses through my ribs, and I press a careful hand against my side, feeling the fresh bruises bloom beneath my fingertips. That was the last time. After that . . . no more. My wrist is stiff where he wrenched it too far—just enough to remind me who he thinks I belong to.
But I’m leaving all of that behind now—his expectations, his demands, the suffocating blueprint he designed for my life, shaping me into something convenient, obedient, and small.
The further I travel from him, from that life, the lighter I become, though my body still aches and my breath trembles. Fear clings to the broken parts of me, whispering uncertainties. But beneath that fear, something else begins to rise—faint, unfamiliar, and beautifully fragile.
Freedom.
For the first time in years—maybe ever—I can almost believe I’ll finally learn how to breathe again.
ChapterOne
Atlas
The humof the tattoo gun fades into the background as Keiffer, one of the owners of the Ink Art Gallery, finishes up with his last client of the night.
I lean back against the counter, rolling the tension out of my neck. It’s late—past closing—but the shop still carries the scent of ink, antiseptic, and the faint trace of aftershave from the guy I worked on earlier. Outside, the rain has settled into a mist, streetlights flickering against the slick pavement. Seattle never really sleeps, but the shop is quiet now, just Sanford and me at the worn wooden counter, a half-empty bottle of whiskey between us.
He’s here for one reason—to convince me to go back to Birchwood Springs. Not because my brothers need me. They don’t. But because there’s a lot happening in that tiny town in Vermont. The one I swore I’d never set foot in it again. I meant it, too. And yet, I couldn’t stay away. Therese Smith had a way of making me do things I swore I wouldn’t. I don’t know if stepmother is the right word for what she was to me, but she sure as hell acted like one—bossing me around, making sure I didn’t entirely fall off the rails. And I let her because the fuckers she actually birthed were too busy being assholes all over the world.
When she died, I told myself that was it. I was done. No more Birchwood Springs. No more family obligations.
However things changed when, Nysa, my best friend, got herself in trouble, and there I was again, making sure she didn’t get herself killed. Once I knew she was safe, I left. But Sanford isn’t letting this go.
“You need to go back.” He exhales, tipping his glass toward me.
