With a sigh, I stop closer than I prefer to be to him. “I went to the carnival.”

But the tracker app he installed on my phone likely already told him that. Other than location, it doesn’t give him anything, so I haven’t bothered fighting him over it. It’s not like I go many places but school anymore. I have more important shit to worry about, and if the need does ever arise, I can set it to Airplane Mode.

“You went to the carnival,” he repeats. “With half the town there to see you dressed like a slut?”

I look away, my lips twitching. I can’t argue with that one. Even if we have different connotations of the word.

“Is that funny?” The step he takes twists in my belly, but it stops at one. Because we’re in the goddamn front yard. The mask can’t come off out here where anyone could see the ugliness it hides. His voice does lower, though. “You and your pathetic mother are wearing on my patience. When you leave my house, you’re representing me. Be fucking respectful and stop begging for it.”

My jaw locks as I hold his glare with one of my own until someone drives by. He breaks into a smile, waving at the minivan. The expression harshens once they’re a safe distance away.

“I know the need for men’s attention is bred into you”—Daniel jerks open the car door, his words only as loud as they need to be—“and the man who should have taught you to keep your legs together is long dead, but you won’t leave my house looking like that again. Not without consequences.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, nails buried deep in my palms.

“I have plenty of my guys ready to treat you like the whore you clearly want to be, so just give me a reason.” The chief, sworn to serve and protect, drops into the driver’s seat. “Clean up the fucking mess inside.”

No part of me moves until he’s backed out of the drive and disappeared around the corner.

And then I walk to the front door. I pretend he didn’t just threaten to have men rape me if he doesn’t approve of the way I dress. I remind myself I’m so fucking close.

I go inside and clean up the mess.

16

REMI

“Mom,” I call out.

I swoop down for a throw pillow, tossing it onto the armchair as I pass through the living room, which is otherwise intact.

A groan leads me to the stairs. She’s sprawled out on her back like she started crawling up them and gave up. Her head’s lulled away from me when I crouch beside her.