She’s going to end up like Therese Smith. And there’s the child who might end up like my brothers, or worse, like me. Twisting herself into knots trying to survive, making excuses as to why they have some noticeable bruise or a broken bone, carrying invisible scars that never really fade. Living under the rule of a man who breaks his family down piece by piece until there’s nothing left.

I’ve seen it before.

I lived it.

The way an abusive bastard rewires someone, convincing them they’re the problem. That they deserve every slammed door, every controlled breath, every insult disguised as concern. That if they just try harder, love better, disappear a little more, maybe they wouldn’t have so many bruises and broken bones. Or it wouldn’t hurt so much.

But it always does.

And if she goes back—if this man gets his hands on her again—she won’t be the only one paying the price. Her child will grow up in the wreckage of a war they never asked for, watching, learning. Thinking this is normal, or hiding while hoping that they don’t get used as a punching bag that night.

I grit my teeth, pushing down the bile rising in my throat. I can’t let that happen.

I won’t.

“Blythe,” I say, my voice quieter now, more certain. “You’re not going back. That’s not even a question. I told you that if you were straight with me, I’d protect you, and I will.”

She swallows hard, blinking fast, her fingers curling into the fabric of her hoodie. “You don’t even know⁠—”

“I don’t need to,” I cut in, my tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ve seen this before. I know how it could end.”

Her lips part like she wants to fight me on it like she wants to tell me I don’t know a damn thing about what she’s been through. But nothing comes out.

Because I’m right.

She didn’t see the end, but I bet she felt it. Felt it creeping closer every day, she stayed, pressing in on her ribs, waiting for the right moment to shatter them. Felt it the second she ran, her pulse pounding in her throat, that sickening certainty that if she stayed even a second longer, she wouldn’t have left at all.

She knows exactly how she almost ended.

And she’s terrified it isn’t over. That he’ll find her. That next time, there won’t be a way out.

“We’ll figure this out,” I tell her, keeping my voice even. “But first, we need to get you to a doctor. And we’re going to do it my way.”

Her head snaps up, the fire flickering back to life behind her eyes. “You can’t just control me.”