PROLOGUE

ZOEY

I stood in the bathroom, blinking against the harsh light that illuminated my reflection in the mirror.

My lip throbbed, swollen to twice its normal size, and the skin around my eye was a canvas of purples and blues, each hue deepening as the minutes passed.

I prodded gently at my ribs, wincing as pain flared with every shallow breath.

“God,” I said to my battered self. “Zoey, what are you doing?”

Trembling hands clutched the edge of the sink for support. Fear clawed at my insides, but it was the clarity of danger that sharpened my resolve. George’s violence had escalated beyond my worst nightmares. The man I’d once believed I loved without question was now a specter of terror in my home.

“I can’t stay,” I muttered. “He’ll kill me next time.”

I didn’t have the accelerated healing of a shifter.

No swift mending of broken skin, no rapid fading of bruises.

George found perverse pleasure in watching me suffer, each injury proof of his dominance and my fragility.

His temper was a force of nature, unpredictable and devastating.

I turned away from the mirror, the dull ache in my body a constant reminder of the years of pain I’d endured.

I thought back to the man I’d fallen in love with.

We met in my final year of college. George was my first serious relationship.

I was a shy person, having been scarred by my mom’s abusive relationship with my father, her first husband, which made me apprehensive around men.

George was an alpha and had been the perfect gentleman—attentive, caring, loving.

He made me feel like the only woman in the room when we were together.

I’d allowed myself to trust him, to open my heart to him.

Our relationship was a whirlwind of romance, and not long after we started dating, he convinced me to move in. He took me to his compound—a stunning estate that consisted of a few acres of land and a beautiful home. Electric fences surrounded the grounds, and men patrolled the perimeter.

When I questioned the excessive security, he explained the guards were part of his pack, and the grounds were his pack lands.

George was a wealthy alpha, a powerful one, and there were always challenges to his title and his money.

My stepfather and half-sister were both shifters, but I had never encountered an alpha before, so George’s explanations seemed plausible.

When he took my car, saying it was unsafe, I was so impressed and touched by his concern that I thought nothing of it. Even when he insisted that it was safer if he or one of his guards drove me wherever I needed to go, I didn’t see the red flags. I liked that George was so protective.

My stepdad, Sam, hadn’t liked George right from the start, but I’d brushed off his doubts. George had convinced me that Sam was jealous of his success and wealth.

Slowly, he manipulated me into believing my friends were holding me back or using me for my connection to him and his social status. I ignored all the warnings from my friends and family, and over time, my relationships dissolved.

Despite George’s protests, I kept in touch with Sam and my half-sister Heather.

Our mother had moved to London years before, so they were my only family in the US, but George had ensured contact was reduced to a few lines of text here and there and a sporadic phone call or FaceTime.

I wasn’t allowed to have a phone of my own.

I was so fucking na?ve. I’d believed every word, every lie he spewed, until I had no one.

Once he’d cut me off from anyone who could offer support, his comments about my appearance turned from helpful critique to increasingly derogatory criticism, until every word he said to me pierced through my confidence.

Then the violence started.

The first time George hit me, he came to me the next day in tears, his arms laden with a field’s worth of flowers, begging for another chance. It was a “dreadful mistake,” he said, and like a fool, I forgave him. And the next time, and the time after that.

Now, he no longer apologized or showered me with gifts. He didn’t need to. He’d well and truly broken me.

He’d done the damage so slowly, cutting me off from my family and friends, that by the time I realized what he was capable of, that the beautiful estate was nothing more than the proverbial gilded cage, it was too late.

I was trapped in a loveless, violent relationship.

My son and I were imprisoned within the confines of George’s compound, encircled by a group of men who showed no regard for anyone but him.

“Mommy?” The small, hesitant voice pulled me from my dark thoughts.

I caught sight of Roland in the doorway, his green eyes wide with shock as he took in the evidence of George’s latest outburst. My heart clenched at the hurt and confusion in his gaze.

“Hey, baby,” I whispered. “It’s okay.”

Roland didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stared, his young mind wrestling with the implications of what he had witnessed.

I’d done my best to shield him, to prevent the harshness of my reality from tainting his world.

I’d watched hours of online tutorials until I became a master in the art of covering bruises with makeup.

I selected my clothing carefully to conceal any signs of my injuries, and if necessary, I would fabricate stories to explain the ones I couldn’t hide.

I’d lost count of the number of doors I’d claimed to have bumped into or sidewalks I’d tripped on.

The pain from my injuries compounded my shame.

In the end, no amount of makeup or dressing strategically could shield my child from the ugliness of George’s anger. It had spilled over into his life like toxic poison, uncontrollable and impossible to contain.

Roland’s face crumpled. “Your lip is bleeding.”

I knelt to his level, despite my protesting ribs. “I know it looks bad, honey. But I’m going to be okay,” I lied, my words as brittle as the facade I tried to maintain for his sake.

“Does it hurt?” His question was innocent, his concern genuine. Anticipating the touch on the bruise around my eye, I forced myself not to wince.

“Not so much now.” Another lie. “Let’s not worry about it, okay? Come here, let me see you.”

He shuffled closer reluctantly. I pulled him into a tight embrace, my body screaming in silent protest. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen the aftermath of his father’s wrath, but it was the worst.

George had never made a move towards Ro before, but this time, when our son had talked back at him, he’d raised his hand.

I’d managed to take the hit meant for Ro—this time.

What if George went for my son when I wasn’t in the room?

The very idea of Roland suffering an injury at the hands of his father made me ill. George was a monster.

And I could no longer delude myself into thinking I could protect Roland from the truth. My guts churned with guilt as I considered the damaging example I was setting for my son, exposing him to the horrifying proof of his father’s abuse.

“Why does Dad get so mad?” Roland asked against my shoulder.

I stroked his hair, the black strands slipping through my fingers. “I don’t know, baby. I wish I did.”

“Is it because of me?” His voice came out small and fearful.

“Never,” I said fiercely, pulling back to look him in the eye. “This is not your fault. You hear me? None of this is your fault.”

He nodded slightly, his shoulders slumping under the burden of our world. This kid was too smart, too observant for his own good. He asked questions I couldn’t answer. I was afraid that if we stayed, the growing storm inside him would one day meet the hurricane that was his father.

“Come on,” I said, gritting my teeth against the pain as I stood. “Let’s find something to take your mind off all this.”

“Okay,” Roland said, taking my hand. His trust in me was unwavering, as always, and guilt clenched my heart for raising him in this environment.

Stepping into Roland’s room was like entering a sanctuary. The gentle glow of his nightlight illuminated his collection of model airplanes, creating a soothing atmosphere. But tonight, the darkness that seeped in from the world outside its walls had tainted even this safe space.

“I hate him,” Roland spat.

“Roland—” I began, but he cut me off.

“I want to make him stop,” he said, his face screwed up in anger. “I won’t let him hurt you again. I’ll stop him.”

My heart froze. It had come to this. I couldn’t ignore it any longer.

My eight-year-old son deserved a carefree childhood away from his father’s abuse.

I refused to let George’s actions taint my son’s innocence any further.

Every muscle in my body stiffened at the idea of my little boy defying his father.

George would see it as a threat to his control and wouldn’t hesitate to respond with aggression, even though our son was just a child.

This had to stop. Now.

“You’re not going to do that,” I said firmly. “We’re going to leave, Roland. We’re going to get away from here.”

“But how?” His voice wavered. “Dad watches everything.”

“Trust me, Ro,” I said as a plan formed in my desperate mind.

“I’ll find a way.” I had to. I was under no illusion anymore that my life depended on it.

Every time George lost control of his temper, he hurt me worse than the last time.

My human body didn’t stand a chance against his shifter strength.